


listen to my heart (can you hear it sing)

by angejolras



Series: prompts [14]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Moulin Rouge! (2001)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Moulin Rouge AU, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 06:09:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16279244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angejolras/pseuds/angejolras
Summary: He's a journalist going undercover as a bohemian writer despite his pointed disinterest in romance. She's a courtesan hardened by years of selling herself, dreaming of running away and never looking back.When their paths meet at the Moulin Rouge, both lives are forever changed.Somehow, despite everything, they fall madly in love.But, like everything else in life, all love comes at a price.(enjonine moulin rouge au.)





	listen to my heart (can you hear it sing)

**Author's Note:**

> GOD i've been working on this for MONTHS and now it's _finally_ finished, praise fucking be amirite (can you tell i've been watching the handmaid's tale) (also i’m sorry for the lack of updates on my other fics, i’ve been working on solely this for couple of weeks now so now that this is done it’s back to business on the other fics as usual!!)
> 
> i tweaked a few things in the plot to better suit the characters, and this is a combination of both the movie and the stage musical. mostly the movie, almost all of it, actually, but a couple of crucial elements are borrowed from the musical. i hope this fic does the concept of this au justice, i worked so hard on it and really i'm quite proud of myself
> 
> there's non-graphic smut at some point. just a heads up.
> 
> also listen to [this](https://youtu.be/hFay0SVFxVI) and [this](https://youtu.be/vLIOQmcc3kw) and [this](https://youtu.be/tO--zfDRkYY?t=144) as you go along

**PARIS, 1901**

Harsh autumn winds howl through the streets of Paris, fallen leaves scattered about haphazardly in the gale’s wake. The skies are a stormy grey, clouds gathering low above the city and thunder rumbling ominously in the distance; they say a storm’s soon to arrive, from the looks of it. Doors slam and cats screech all throughout Montmartre, dim lights flickering on and off as powerful gusts of wind smother the flames of candles in the windowsills. Squawking birds take flight and the darkening clouds roll by as the wind wails its mournful tune, soon reaching the ears of Gabriel Enjolras.

He sits in a corner of his flat, crouched on the ground with an empty bottle of wine in hand, and a gruff sigh leaves his lips as he curls into himself, as much as he possibly can with his stature. He’s received a couple of invitations from Courfeyrac in recent weeks, invitations to get out of the flat and go traversing through the city. Enjolras supposes he appreciates the thought—the man is only attempting to lift his spirits, as are the others in the long since disbanded troupe. After all, it’s been almost a year since it happened.

Almost a year, and he still can’t bring himself to even try and get past it. How does someone simply get past something like that?

Groaning under his breath, Enjolras gets to his feet, empty wine bottle swinging from his hand. He glances down at the bottle and laughs at himself, derisive, mocking. After all that time he spent just two years ago, belittling and insulting Grantaire for gradually succumbing to alcoholism, and now…

 _How the tables have turned,_ Enjolras thinks bitterly, hurling the bottle to the floor and watching as it smashes to pieces.

Papers are strewn all over the room, covering the floors, pasted to the walls, piled atop his bed, and he listlessly steps over them, wrinkled paper crunching underneath his feet, going to the desk by the window and sinking into the rickety chair before it. He glances out at the Moulin Rouge, angry tears flooding into his eyes at the agonising memories the sight of the cabaret, closed for nearly a year now ever since everything happened, brings to mind. His typewriter sits abandoned, shoved to a corner of the desk; Enjolras hasn’t touched the thing in months now. Instead, he pulls open a drawer and pulls out his stash, staring at it contemptuously.

Funny how the thing that brought him to Paris for him to investigate and attempt to expose its rumoured underground trade has become the one thing keeping his sanity from slipping.

He’s been trying to quit for a couple of months now, he has; it never worked. He always finds himself crawling back to the drug, having discovered that the high he got from inhaling its fumes helps to ease the pain. It ashames him to even think about it; she never would have wanted him to be the mess he’s become.

He still remembers her last words to him. Every last bit.

It’s haunted his dreams, ever present in his nightmares, forever echoing in the back of his mind.

_“You have to tell our story, Enjolras. Promise me!”_

An angry sob rips itself from his throat and he nearly collapses on the desk, pounding at the wood as tears leak out of the corners of his eyes. He’s trembling, shaking uncontrollably from the force of his heaving sobs, and he lets out an anguished scream, drowned out by the sound of the sharp crackle of thunder that pierces through the night. By God, what he wouldn’t give to turn back the clock. Anything to bring her back.

His heart pounds rapidly in his chest as he slowly lifts up his head, gazing at the typewriter sitting nearby. It’s still got a sheet of paper stuck into it, crisp and white.

He takes in a shaky breath, counting to five before he releases it. Inhale, exhale.

As miserable as he may have become, he’s never been one to break his promises.

Slowly, lethargically, Enjolras reaches across to pull his typewriter towards him, straightening up as best as he can and blinking the tears out of his vision as he begins to type.

_The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return._

Enjolras brings his hand to his face, wiping away his tears, tear tracks smeared all over his cheeks. Prior to meeting her, he never believed in such things, considering all things related to love to be frivolous and trivial; nothing to bother meddling with, for it was a waste of time. It’s astounding how much a person can change over the course of a single year.

He sighs. Of course, it all began with his arrival at the Moulin Rouge. 

 

**PARIS, 1899**

Enjolras watched as the sprawling fields sped by, green as far as the eye could see, observing how it gradually gave way to suburbia, smoke rising into the sky from chimneys in the distance. The train was soon rolling into the city, Enjolras watching as Paris came into view, the Eiffel Tower looming high and majestic over the rooftops; he bit his lip and tapped his fingers absently against the window. His father had thought it a waste of time that he was going to Paris to the famed Moulin Rouge after having heard rumours of illicit dealings behind the scenes of a new drug derived from opium—diamorphine, it was called—to try and investigate deeper so he would be able to write about it. Then again, his father thought a lot of the things Enjolras did to be a waste of time, the first thing having been his decision to become a journalist. He had always had a knack for writing, all sorts of writing; he had thought briefly of pursuing creative writing before deciding against it, thinking that journalism was a far more practical approach to the art form.

All he had with him was his clunky typewriter and a trunk full of clothes, his maroon coat upon his back, and though the primary reason for his coming to Paris was to investigate contraband diamorphine dealings, he also found himself to be curious about the way bohemianism had swept the globe. Fitting how Montmartre, the very neighbourhood he was heading to, was said to be the centre of the bohemian revolution. Maybe he’d write an article on that too.

Before he knew it, the train was pulling into the station and had screeched to a stop, passengers beginning to get up and get off. Armed with his absurdly heavy trunk, his typewriter, and a small wad of cash stuffed into his coat pocket, Enjolras made his way to the exit of his train carriage and stepped out onto the platform, sunlight streaming in through the skylights. Breathing in the fresh air, he was soon on his way to Montmartre.

Enjolras found himself a flat in a building directly across from the Moulin Rouge, the landlady handing him a key and escorting him upstairs before leaving him to his own devices. His window overlooked the cabaret across the street, the Eiffel Tower able to be seen in the far distance, and Enjolras pushed the desk in the room all the way to the window, dragging the chair over before he took his typewriter out of his trunk and plopped it down on the desk before he took a seat. Gazing out at the Moulin Rouge, he clicked his tongue absently, tapping his fingers against the wood.

How the hell was he supposed to even get close enough to the nightclub to investigate in the first place? Maybe his father had been right.

A frustrated sigh escaped Enjolras’ lips, and not even moments later, a solution literally came crashing through the ceiling.

Letting out a startled yelp, heart racing a mile a minute, he jumped out of his seat and to his feet, taking huge steps back as he stared at the man who had crashed through the ceiling, dangling by a cotton sheet. He had wild black curls upon his head and looked as if he hadn’t shaved in a while, and he appeared to be unconscious, mouth half-open and eyes closed, his head lolling back. Even from where he was standing, Enjolras could smell the distinct scent of alcohol, and he wrinkled his nose in distaste—whoever this man was, he must have been drinking an awful lot. No wonder he passed out.

“Sorry about that!” Enjolras’ head snapped up at the sound of a voice, eyes widening in alarm at the sight of three men peering over the hole they had made in the ceiling. The first one, the one who had spoken, was an elfin thing, with curly locks of chocolate-brown and dark eyes; the man next to him had sandy hair and spectacles pushed up the bridge of his nose, while the third was a ginger, his blue eyes wide.

“He’s just had a little too much to drink, that’s all,” the ginger supplied, smiling apologetically.

“We’ll be down there in just a moment,” the sandy-haired man told him. “We’re sorry for the inconvenience.”

Before Enjolras could so much as respond, the three men were downstairs and in his flat, the ginger getting to his knees beside the unconscious man and gently trying to shake him awake while the other two stood by Enjolras.

“We haven’t seen you around before,” the smaller of the two remarked, looking Enjolras up and down and sizing him up before he stuck out his hand. “Adrien Courfeyrac. Most people call me Courf.”

Enjolras stared at the hand Courfeyrac offered to him, taking it and shaking his hand rather stiffly. “Gabriel Enjolras,” he introduced himself, rather tense. “Just Enjolras.”

“Julien Combeferre,” the other man, the bespectacled one with the sandy hair, offered, holding out his own hand for Enjolras to shake. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure to meet you, too.” Enjolras shook Combeferre’s hand before his gaze trailed to the ginger and the unconscious raven-haired man. Courfeyrac soon took notice, taking it upon himself to introduce the two.

“That one’s Jehan, Jehan Prouvaire,” he told Enjolras, pointing at the blue-eyed ginger, still trying to shake the black-haired man awake. “That other one’s Grantaire.” Leaning in, Courfeyrac whispered to Enjolras conspiratorially, “Nobody knows his first name. He’s only ever referred to himself by his last, or just R.”

Enjolras let out a nervous little chuckle and nodded, though why he did so, he didn’t know. Combeferre looked around the room, his gaze soon settling on the typewriter set up on the desk by the window, and he perked up. “Are you a writer?” he asked Enjolras, eyes bright. “What brings you here to our little corner of the city?”

Enjolras mustered a smile that felt too forced for his own liking. “Of sorts. I’m a journalist.” He hesitated to answer Combeferre’s second question; for all he knew, the man could be one of the diamorphine dealers he was attempting to find a way to investigate.

Combeferre raised his eyebrows upon hearing Enjolras saying the word ‘journalist’, and he pulled Courfeyrac aside to whisper some words to him. Instantly, Enjolras’ heart picked up the pace in his chest as he attempted to keep himself from visibly growing frantic, wondering if he just blew his cover.

He held his breath as he watched Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchange a few words under their breath before they turned back to him, the latter grinning from ear to ear as they pulled him aside.

“Are you here to investigate the diamorphine dealings?” Combeferre asked in a low voice.

Enjolras swallowed. Against his better judgement, he nodded, for it seemed that the pair were quite shrewd and had seen right through him. “Yes, I am.”

It was silent for a few moments, and then Courfeyrac let out a whoop, further unsettling Enjolras.

“So are we!” he told Enjolras enthusiastically. “We’ve been here for a couple of years now. We still aren’t sure if the diamorphine dealing is just a rumour or not; none of us have ever gotten close enough to the dancers in the club to find out.”

“What do you mean, ‘close enough’?” Enjolras asked, intrigued.

“A few of us have been undercover as part of a bohemian troupe for a while now,” Combeferre explained. “It helps that Jehan and Feuilly—you haven’t met him yet, he’s upstairs—really are good at writing plays and composing music such. It’s more convincing that way. We’re trying to write a show so we’ll have an excuse to hang around the club more often. It’s called _Spectacular Spectacular_.” He stole a glance out of the corner of his eye at Grantaire, who was just beginning to stir, and he told Enjolras quietly, “Grantaire isn’t really a playwright or a journalist—I think he only joined because he wanted some company.”

“He knows all about what we’re trying to do, though,” Courfeyrac confided. “And it’s been handy—he’s friendly with some of the dancers, but he still hasn’t managed to find out if they’re really dealing diamorphine in there or not. They’re tough nuts to crack.”

“You could join us,” Combeferre offered. “You seem like just the kind of person Éponine would take a liking to.”

Enjolras pursed his lips, eyebrows furrowed. “Who is Éponine?”

Courfeyrac sniggered. “You really mustn’t have been here long if you haven’t heard of Éponine.”

“She—she’s the star courtesan of—of the Moulin Rouge,” a new, gruff voice spoke up from behind Enjolras, words slurred. “Great gal.”

He whirled around to find Grantaire awake, more or less—he looked as if he would trip over his own two feet and crash to the ground if it weren’t for his arm slung around Jehan’s shoulders.

“Can you write?” Courfeyrac questioned Enjolras bluntly.

His brow furrowed even further as he kept the offence he took at Courfeyrac’s question from showing on his face. “Of course I can write.”

“No, I meant if you can write poetry and such,” Courfeyrac clarified. “Good poetry.”

Enjolras considered it for a while—growing up, he had always had a fascination with all sorts of writing, crafting wild stories and composing pages and pages of poetry before he eventually grew out of it, wanting to pursue a more serious, practical form of it, which is why he became a journalist. However, he still composed poetry and wrote little stories on occasion when he found he had little else to do, so he eventually replied, “Yes, I suppose I can.”

Courfeyrac clapped his hands together and whooped. “Yes! We could use another person with actual experience as a part of our team. You’re in.”

Still bewildered beyond belief, Enjolras asked, “What is it that I’m supposed to _do_?”

“Come upstairs with us,” Jehan invited, straining not to fall over from Grantaire’s weight against him. “We’ll explain there.”

Despite his confusion, Enjolras let himself be whisked off to the odd little troupe’s flat upstairs, finding sets and stepladders and all sorts of strange objects littering the apartment. The whole place smelled strongly of alcohol; Enjolras thought he could smell the faint scent of opium in the air as well, along with the smell of burning candles. A man with curly, close-cropped brown hair sat in a corner of the room, hunched over a desk, seeming to be poring over a whole stack of paper.

“Feuilly!” Courfeyrac trilled out upon entering the room, careful to avoid the hole Grantaire had made in the floor earlier. “Meet the newest addition to our little group, Enjolras!”

The man, Feuilly, finally looked up from his papers and turned around, eyes widening in surprise at the sight of Enjolras arm in arm with Combeferre. “What?”

“I fell into his flat,” Grantaire announced in a thoroughly perplexing attempt at explanation, a self-satisfied grin on his face.

“He’s undercover as well,” Combeferre explained, bringing Enjolras forward to Feuilly and just narrowly missing the hole in the floor. “Trying to investigate the diamorphine dealings we heard about. I think he could be the one to get closer to Éponine.”

Feuilly’s mouth fell open before it closed again as he looked at Enjolras, sizing him up and clicking his tongue once he had done so. “He does look the type,” he murmured, trailing off.

“The type to _what_?” Enjolras asked, impatience lacing his voice as he did his best to keep himself from sounding exasperated. He had only been in the city for half a day at most, and he was already caught up in a strange plan he barely had a clue about.

Courfeyrac dragged a chair over and pushed Enjolras into it, Jehan dutifully bringing the rest of them chairs for all of them to be comfortable. “We’ve got a plan,” he declared.

“Yes, I can see that,” Enjolras wryly retorted. “How exactly does this plan of yours involve me?”

“We’ve been trying to find out what exactly it is going on behind the scenes at the Moulin Rouge for a long time now,” Feuilly explained patiently. “To do that, though, one of us needs to get closer to Éponine.”

“Only Éponine,” Courfeyrac added. “She’s the star—the sparkling diamond, they call her. She definitely knows the ins and outs of the Moulin Rouge. Hell, she knows the ins and outs of the city, I’m sure. If anybody would know if they really are dealing drugs or not, it’ll be her.”

“You could compose a piece to seduce her with,” Grantaire chimed in, a lecherous smirk on his face.

The look on Enjolras’ face rapidly morphed into one of alarm. “ _Seduce her_?” he repeated, mortified at such an idea.

“No, he’s right,” Combeferre said, chin in hand and his elbow on his knee. “Seduce her, and you get closer to her. We’ve been working on writing a show to sell to them so we could be in there on a more regular basis; you could pose as our new writer and impress her with your words. Impress her, and she’ll insist to Javert—he runs the Moulin Rouge—that we must put on the show. It’ll get us closer to the dancers and the actors in the Moulin Rouge, and we’d have a better chance of finding out if they’re really dealing diamorphine in there. All you have to do is write something and seduce Éponine.” He contemplated it for a few moments before he chuckled to himself and mused, “Though really, she’ll probably seduce you first.”

Enjolras stiffened. “I’m not the kind of person to be easily seduced. At all.”

Grantaire let out a mocking cackle, his raucous laughter ringing out through the apartment. “You clearly have not met Éponine.”

“Considering how I’ve only been in the city for half a day, is that surprising?” Enjolras shot back, growing exasperated of the apparent drunkard’s attitude.

“She’s incredible at what she does,” Courfeyrac told Enjolras. “Trust me, you’ll be under her spell in no time.”

Enjolras snorted, disbelieving. “Doubtful, but fine, let’s go with the assumption that I will.”

“Well, if we’re finished on the topic of Éponine…” Combeferre tapped his foot on the floor, clicking his tongue.

“There are a few other things you should know,” Jehan said. “Javert is the man who runs the Moulin Rouge, as Combeferre said. We don’t know much about him—he’s a very private person. We do know that whenever someone brings up his past, he gets defensive and closes himself off.”

“So you think he rose to the top through illegal means of doing so,” Enjolras guessed.

“Yes, exactly,” Feuilly affirmed. “Get close to Éponine, and we could perhaps get close to Javert.”

“We can arrange for a meeting tonight,” Courfeyrac told Enjolras. “Do you have any nice suits or something of the sort?”

“A tailcoat would be preferable,” Combeferre added. “The courtesans like it when their clients adhere to a white tie dress code.”

“I have one tailcoat,” Enjolras replied.

“Wear that,” Courfeyrac told him. It wasn’t so much a request as it was a command.

“We’ll meet you this evening at seven,” Jehan said brightly.

Enjolras didn’t see how he could say no to that, so he nodded.

Grantaire clapped his hands together and shot to his feet, nearly stumbling from how quickly he stood up, bellowing, “Okay, now who’s up for some absinthe shots?”

* * *

Enjolras thought he could still feel the liquor burning his throat and setting fire to his insides by the time he was getting dressed in his tailcoat, fixing his white bow tie before buttoning up his coat. He stumbled slightly on his way upstairs once he had done so, still somewhat woozy from the shots Grantaire practically forced down his throat, to find the others waiting impatiently for him, already in their best suits and silk top hats. Courfeyrac let out a dismayed gasp upon seeing Enjolras without a top hat, and without another word, he darted over to the wardrobe in the corner to pull out a spare and stick it into Enjolras’ hand. “Put that on,” the smaller man ordered.

Figuring that he might as well do it so he wouldn’t have to waste time arguing with Courfeyrac, Enjolras placed the hat upon his head without a word, giving Courfeyrac a look. “May we go now?”

Combeferre clapped his hands together briskly. “Yes, let’s go.”

The club being across from the building in which they resided, it was a brief walk, just a stroll across the street. Once they were inside, Enjolras was instantly swept up in the beautiful chaos, almost as if he was on a psychedelic trip.

The bright colours of the Moulin Rouge overwhelmed him, almost painful to look at from how many and how quickly they moved—reds, blues, golds, every colour that came to mind. Everything was too bright; colourful dancers and courtesans whirled about on the dance floor among the patrons clad in black and white, music and laughter deafening even those in the deepest corners of the club, and as he turned around in place, completely flabbergasted by his surroundings, Enjolras was soon separated from the group, lost in the pandemonium.

Girls with full faces of makeup threw themselves at him, lifting up their frilly, multilayered skirts and cackling at the wide-eyed look on his face, one part scandalised and two parts too shocked to form words, as they flashed him glimpses of their underwear. Some attempted to drag him out to the dance floor, purring in his ear, and he looked around frantically for the rest of the group as another of the courtesans grabbed him by the wrist with a surprisingly iron grip. It wasn’t long until Combeferre came to his rescue, gently telling the courtesan to find someone else before he dragged Enjolras to the table they’d found for themselves.

Courfeyrac seemed mildly irritated, his gaze never leaving the sheet of paper he was furiously scribbling away on as he hissed, “Don’t leave us again! You could get lost in here, and you never know if you’ll end up with the wrong crowd or not.”

Enjolras was about to open his mouth to heatedly point out how _they_ were the ones who left _him_ before he caught sight of what it was that Courfeyrac was scribbling on. It was the poetry he had typed up to try and seduce Éponine with, and Courfeyrac was crossing things out and scribbling notes in the margins, much to Enjolras’ displeasure.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked sharply, snatching the paper away from Courfeyrac before the man snatched it right back.

“You are not going to be able to seduce the sparkling diamond with _this_ ,” Courfeyrac replied frankly, wrinkling his nose as he read over what was left of the poetry Enjolras had attempted to write. “Did you write this at the last minute?”

Enjolras sighed and rolled his eyes, slightly affronted. “Considering how I met you this morning and you told me to have something by tonight, technically, yes, I did. Is it _that_ bad?”

Courfeyrac let out a snort and passed the sheet of paper off to Jehan. “You’ve never been in love before, have you?”

“Why does that matter?” Enjolras snapped. In his chagrin, he was glad for the dim lighting of the club hiding his reddened cheeks.

The look on Jehan’s face contorted into one of absolute horror as he read over what Enjolras had written. “No! No, no, this is all wrong, you can’t present this to her,” he told Enjolras, shaking his head and pressing his lips together. “You have to really _feel_ it. People can usually tell if you’ve experienced what you’re writing about. The same thing goes for the opposite, unless you’re _very_ good at what you do. You’ve clearly never been in love before.”

“What difference does it make if I have or not?” Enjolras asked, now truly confused.

“It makes _all_ the difference!” Jehan’s distress was evidently growing, and he beckoned Enjolras over, gesturing for him to take the seat beside him. Enjolras’ crossness only increased when Grantaire let out a mocking laugh and took a swig from the bottle of wine he had in hand, Enjolras looking at him in disdain.

“Do you ever put that bottle down?” he questioned snappishly.

Grantaire simply stared him straight in the eyes as he took another obstinate swig. Enjolras scoffed.

Looked like the answer was no.

“Hey, focus.” Jehan nudged him, successfully bringing Enjolras’ attention back to the poetry he was to try and seduce Éponine with. “If you’re having trouble writing about things you haven’t experienced before, I can help you out.”

Enjolras had to restrain himself from laughing wryly, knowing Jehan was only trying to be helpful and appreciating him for that. The thing was, he had never really had a problem with writing about things he had never personally gone through, with the wild stories he crafted as a child—he simply didn’t have time for such a thing as love. It was beneath him.

Still, if getting closer to this Éponine the others wouldn’t stop talking about would help them dig deeper about the alleged diamorphine dealings, then he would do it.

As Jehan helped him out in his writing endeavours, Enjolras thought back to their drunken conversations earlier that day, having gotten a basic idea of the five men.

Jehan was helping with the investigations, but he really was one of the children of the bohemian revolution, ever the optimist, a hopeless romantic, a true poet, and in love with love.

Grantaire had quickly established himself to be an alcoholic, hardly ever seen without a bottle in hand; he didn’t seem to have any goals to strive for, just sticking around for the hell of it, though having him around did come in handy at times, with how he knew some of the dancers at the Moulin Rouge well.

Courfeyrac was friendly and open for the most part, flirtatious too, though he had an inclination towards having a short temper at times.

Aside from being a journalist, Combeferre also had an interest in philosophy as well, always calm and collected, providing a balance to Courfeyrac’s chaotic energy, and the guide among them all.

Feuilly was an artist, making him one of the children of the revolution as well, though markedly less so than Jehan—he seemed far more focused on the investigations, though whenever they were working on writing their show, Enjolras had learned, he was the one with the most ideas to contribute.

At long last, Enjolras and Jehan finally managed to finish revising and rewriting the poem, Jehan’s help and advice having proved valuable. Reading over the newly rewritten poem, Enjolras almost felt as if he could find it in himself to actually believe in love. Almost.

Courfeyrac looked around, biting his lip. “Oh, good, we’ve evaded Javert,” he muttered under his breath, mostly to himself.

“Which one is he?” Enjolras questioned, leaning in closer.

Courfeyrac pointed at the man standing on a platform near the band playing, tall and slim, bronze-skinned and dark-eyed, watching over them all with an unreadable expression on his face before he slinked away and disappeared into the crowds. “That’s him. He runs the place. God knows why, though; he’s definitely not the kind to party all night.”

Enjolras gave a wry little smile, pointing out quietly, “Well, we all have to find a way to survive somehow, don’t we?”

Courfeyrac nodded, just about to respond before a hush fell upon the entire club when the bright golden lights changed to a pale blue, casting shadows across the room and effectively capturing the patrons’ attention as they all looked up, silver confetti raining down from the ceiling. Enjolras looked up, and his jaw promptly fell open in shock.

A young woman was up upon a swing descending from the ceiling, much of her face silhouetted by the little black top hat lined with glittering diamonds placed neatly upon her head. Diamonds dangled from her ears, her dress, her wrists, her thick chocolate-brown locks artfully arranged in an elaborate ponytail of loose curls without a hair out of place, black evening gloves pulled up to her biceps and glittering silver stilettos upon her feet over fishnet stockings, the tight corset she had on underneath her glimmering dress accentuating her hourglass figure and hugging her curves.

As she slowly came into view, Enjolras could now see why they all called her the sparkling diamond.

Éponine began to sing, her voice a sultry contralto, low and seductive, a wicked little smirk upon her face, and as Enjolras’ eyes flitted around the room, he could see how everyone, men and women alike, were utterly spellbound by her mere presence. As his gaze went back to her, he caught himself thinking that maybe she had him under her spell, if only just a little bit, as well.

“We’ve arranged a meeting with her for you later tonight,” Courfeyrac told him in a hushed whisper, snapping him out of his trance. “After her number is done. Just you and her. Totally alone.”

Enjolras pressed his lips together tightly and nodded. He couldn’t mess this up.

Little did he know—little did any of the men know—that another man was to meet with Éponine. Javert’s investor, a man who had come to establish himself as a member of the nobility with a shady past, was also present at the Moulin Rouge that night.

Sitting at the table just beside the troupe’s, separated only by a wall, was Duke Montparnasse of Monroth.

* * *

Javert sat himself down at a table with Montparnasse, sucking in a deep breath and assuming a warm, genial manner, far from his typical aloof demeanour, as he gave the duke a tight-lipped smile. “It’s good to see you again, Monsieur.”

Montparnasse flashed him a little smile, much like Javert’s own, as he shook his hand. “That’s enough with the pleasantries, down to business now.”

Javert grimaced and nodded, watching as Montparnasse turned his head to watch Éponine dancing about, snatching jewellery out of the patrons’ clutches and tucking them away, teasing them with light kicks to the shin and a pout of her cherry-red lips as she blew kisses every which way. Javert hadn’t really gotten a good look at Montparnasse in a long time—the duke’s raven hair was slicked back underneath his top hat, sideburns neatly trimmed, and his pale skin seemed to be even paler than ever, though maybe that was an effect of the lighting. A contemplative look was on his face as his eyes raked over Éponine with what looked like an unhealthy amount of interest, carnal desire in his green eyes as he watched the courtesan putting on quite a show, singing and flirting with patrons, shaking her rear in men’s faces and laughing at their wide-eyed reactions.

Montparnasse inhaled deeply, soon exhaling before he muttered, “So when am I going to meet the girl?”

“After her number, I’ve arranged a private meeting,” Javert replied in a low voice. “Just you and Mademoiselle Éponine. Totally alone.”

Pleased, Montparnasse’s lips curled upwards into a dangerous little smile. “Totally alone?”

Javert nodded slowly, teeth digging into his bottom lip. “Totally alone,” he confirmed under his breath.

Montparnasse’s head snapped back in Éponine’s direction when she declared, “Come and get me, boys!”

She let out a squeal as she was tossed up into the air, lifted up by the awestruck men, and in the middle of her number, she called out for Javert, leading him to excuse himself to get up and put on that wide smile on his face as he pushed through the crowd, approaching her. She was going on and on about how diamonds were a girl’s best friend, with how diamonds were forever, and she was placed on a platform Javert jumped up on, gracefully sliding down from the men’s grip and approaching him.

Javert gave her a smile, one of the rare genuine smiles he gave, before dangling an enormous mound of diamonds in the shape of a heart in front of her, leading her to hop up and attempt to grab it, the two of them dancing circles around each other. They were so swept up in their number, neither of them noticed how Jehan got to his feet and attempted to dash off only to spill scalding hot soup on Montparnasse.

She ripped off one of her gloves, waving it about, and in the midst of her little dance, she leaned back to enquire, “Is the duke here, Javert?”

Javert smiled at her, a mysterious little smile; over the past few years, he had grown fond of the courtesan, often treating her as if she was his daughter. “Would I let you down?”

He looked over, eyes widening in alarm at how Jehan was dabbing a handkerchief at a red-faced, furious Montparnasse’s lap, looking as if he was apologising profusely and avoiding eye contact like his life depended on it while he attempted to dry off the duke’s clothes.

“Where is he?” The sound of Éponine’s eager voice soon brought his attention back to her.

Turning his head, he told her, “He’s over there, the man Jehan is shaking a handkerchief at.”

Javert missed how at the exact moment Éponine happened to look over, Jehan had leaned around the wall and asked to borrow a handkerchief from a golden-haired man he’d never seen before in his life.

As they danced around, Éponine’s eyes landed on Jehan waving a hanky at a man she’d never seen before. Squinting to get a better look, she instantly noted how handsome he was, with his defined jaw, his bright eyes, and the golden curls upon his head, though he looked as if he had a somewhat solemn air about him. She didn’t doubt his physique underneath that tailcoat of his was far above average as well, and his gaze flicked over to her and they locked eyes for a split second; Éponine didn’t miss how his bright eyes widened, though why, she couldn’t quite put her finger on, when her gaze found his before he quickly looked away.

“Are you sure?” she asked, incredulous.

“Let me take another look.” Javert leaned around her, seeing Jehan now dabbing his handkerchief at Montparnasse’s clothes before the duke angrily rebuked him, so he thought nothing of it, telling Éponine, “That’s him.”

The dancers gathered in a circle around them, lifting their skirts to conceal the pair as they dove down and out of sight, Éponine rapidly undoing her outerwear as one of the girls handed her a new outfit. “Do you think he’s going to invest?” she asked bluntly as she pulled down her dress and fishnet stockings, soon being handed a new dress by one of the girls.

Javert let out a low chuckle. “I don’t see how he could refuse after spending the night with you.”

“What’s his type?” Éponine questioned; she was good at that kind of thing, becoming whoever her clients wanted her to be. It came with the job, obviously; over the past few years, she had mastered the art of pretending. “Wilting flower?” Her lips pursed into a pout, gaze trailing downwards. “Bright and bubbly?” She let out a high-pitched giggle, tossing some hair over her shoulder and fluttering her eyelashes. “Or smouldering temptress?” Her gaze darkened and she narrowed her eyes, softly growling.

Javert considered it for a bit as Éponine pulled on her new dress once she had gotten her glittering sheer white pantyhose on, replying at last, “I would say smouldering temptress. We’re all relying on you, Éponine.”

She shot him a grin, nodding steadfastly as she pulled on pearly-white evening gloves before clipping wide diamond bracelets onto her wrists. “I won’t let you down.”

“Keep in mind,” Javert reminded her encouragingly, “a real show in a real theatre.”

Éponine’s gaze flitted between him and the handheld mirror she was checking her appearance in, having let her hair down from its ponytail, and she let out a wistful sigh, pressing her lips together until they nearly formed a straight line as she murmured mostly to herself, “I’ll finally be a real actress.”

“You can do it, Liebchen,” Javert told her, nodding.

She looked down at herself, letting out a long-winded sigh before the music swelled, alerting them that it was time for her to pop up again, so she put on a wide smile and hopped to her feet, arms outstretched in the air and cheers erupting from the crowd at her reappearance.

She stepped off the platform without a hitch, elegant as ever, and continued to sing, the crowds parting to allow her space to move as she strutted confidently towards the table Grantaire and his friends were always at. The golden-haired man—the duke, as she had been told—was shoved in her direction and he nearly fell off the chair he was sitting in as Éponine shook her hips from side to side, light catching in the diamonds of her attire with each tiny move she made.

He looked up at her with a look in his eyes that could only be described as shock, looking as if he had been caught completely off-guard. She noticed for the first time how his eyes were a brilliant blue, the kind of blue a person could get lost in, and she faltered for a millisecond before quickly regaining her composure.

Flashing him a lascivious little smirk, she murmured breathily, “I believe you’ve been expecting me.”

* * *

Enjolras sat there, completely at a loss for words, as he gazed up at the young woman standing before him in a pale pink dress with boas of fluffy white swan feathers dangling down from her waist, diamonds encrusting her chest. He had no idea how to respond, simply sitting there with his lips slightly parted in mild alarm.

“Um.” He was completely, utterly tongue-tied.

Éponine turned around to the tittering audience they had attracted, raising her arms and announcing matter-of-factly without an ounce of apology in her voice, “Sorry, boys, it looks like tonight is going to be lady’s choice!”

A fair few of the patrons booed, but for the most part, they burst into cacophonous cheers as Éponine turned back around to face Enjolras, leaning in slightly to whisper to him with a wicked grin, “I lied, I’m not sorry at all.”

Enjolras swallowed, just sitting there, unable to form a proper response. Éponine awaited a reply, arm outstretched to him, and when none came, she turned back around to face the audience, her face falling and lips pursing into a saddened pout as she whimpered, eyes downcast, eliciting cries of sympathy from their spectators. The music changed once again and she turned around, grabbing Enjolras’ hands and pulling him to his feet.

Grantaire was about to open his mouth to say something before Éponine silenced him. “I’ll handle it, R,” she told him before turning back to Enjolras, grabbing him by the waist and pulling him close to her. “Let’s dance, pretty boy.”

She laced her fingers through his, maintaining an iron grip on his hand as she pulled him out to the middle of the dance floor, listening as one of the performers sang out a fast-paced song, dancing circles around him. It was a flurry of activity, Enjolras barely able to process what the hell was happening as Éponine steered him around the dance floor; he hadn’t even really gotten a good look at her, a proper look, what with the lighting and how she was moving about so constantly.

“How—how nice of you to have taken an interest in our little show,” Éponine remarked breathlessly when they were face to face once again.

Enjolras searched his mind for the right words to say, recalling all the different responses he had practised with Jehan earlier. “It sounds delightful,” he replied at last, cheeks flushed from all the movement and how stuffy the room seemed to have become. “I would love to be involved more in it.”

“Really?” Éponine barely managed to keep the excitement out of her voice as she twirled around him.

“That’s assuming you like what my friends and I do, of course,” Enjolras added, almost completely out of breath.

Éponine’s brow creased at his words, perplexed. _Friends? What friends? What the hell is he talking about…_ She thought against voicing these thoughts out loud, however, saying instead, “I—I’m sure I will!”

She placed her arms around his neck and pulled him close and only then did Enjolras notice how small she was, petite even in her sky-high heels. She barely reached his nose in her stilettos, and had she not been wearing them, he suspected she would be nearly an entire head shorter than him. He found himself wondering, if only for a fleeting second, if he would ever find out.

“I was thinking—” Enjolras was cut off by Éponine spinning him around in circles before they came to a stop “—we could do it in private, perhaps?”

“Oh, were you?” Éponine let out an airy laugh, the corner of her mouth turning up in a lopsided smile.

“Yes, a private poetry reading,” Enjolras affirmed, biting his lip and inhaling deeply as he awaited her response.

They stopped in their tracks, Éponine’s arms circling his neck as she gazed up at him with her head cocked to the side, cherry-red lips forming a little ‘O’. “A poetry reading?” She bit her lip as a smirk formed on her face, purring, “Well, I do love a little ‘poetry’ after supper.”

The music picked up once again and Éponine let out a whoop as she twirled around the dance floor, weaving in and out of the crowd and laughing merrily as Enjolras attempted to chase after her while she did so; it wasn’t long before he was snatched away by Courfeyrac and dragged back to their table, Éponine in the centre of the dance floor, commanding the room and shouting out, “Hang on to your hats, boys!”

Her swing descended from the ceiling once more as the men tossed their hats to the ceilings, laughter ringing out through the room while Éponine fell back into her swing, tossing one leg over her other knee and beaming as the courtesans and dancers and patrons formed circles around her as she was lifted up into the air. Her voice rang out through the room, singing her heart out, and Enjolras and the rest of the troupe watched her, transfixed.

Enjolras couldn’t help but think he was one of the only ones that noticed when Éponine abruptly stopped singing mid-sentence, her grip on the swing tightening, gasping for air.

Javert stopped short in front of the orchestra, rooted to the spot, terror overcoming him at the sight of how Éponine went rigid; he watched through widened eyes with bated breath as her eyes closed and she toppled backwards, losing her balance and falling hard and fast off the swing. Javert could hardly keep the yell of alarm from escaping his lungs as he watched how one of the dancers, Bahorel, came rushing out of the crowd, breaking the circle he had been in to catch Éponine in record time.

Everyone’s eyes were on Éponine as Bahorel carried her away, a hush having fallen over the room while they gaped at her unconscious form. Desperate to salvage the show, Javert opened his mouth and let out a long, loud cheer. He began chanting her name, everyone else gradually joining in as Éponine was carried out of sight, a few of the courtesans and dancers following Bahorel as he carried her off.

“Éponine! Éponine! Éponine!”

Enjolras could only sit there, mouth slightly agape and eyebrows furrowed as he wondered what the bloody hell had just happened.

* * *

Éponine woke up ten minutes later in her dressing room to find her friend Cosette’s eyes on her as well as Bahorel’s, and Musichetta’s and Bossuet’s, two other dancers in the club. They were all staring down at her, concern written all over their faces, and she struggled to catch her breath, chest heaving as she did so.

“Oh, Cosette,” she breathed out as the blonde woman brought a flask to her lips, presumably medicine to make her feel better.

“Are you feeling all right, love?” Cosette asked softly, holding the flask up to Éponine’s lips and making sure she drank it up.

Beads of sweat dotted Éponine’s forehead, her eyeshadow smudged, and her bouncy curls were slightly limp and sticking to her sweat-stained skin as she nodded feebly in response to Cosette’s question. “Stupid costumes,” she whispered, letting out a breathless laugh. “So… tight.”

“Just a fainting spell, I’m sure,” Musichetta murmured, grabbing Bossuet’s arms.

Éponine let out a violent cough, prompting Bossuet to lift a handkerchief to her mouth for her to cough into, and Cosette’s sharp eyes caught how droplets of blood soaked into the white of the fabric as Éponine coughed into it. Cosette’s heart raced at the sight as thoughts of what on earth could possibly be going on with the sparkling diamond consumed her, watching as the cloth was placed in a bowl set beside the couch Bahorel had set Éponine down upon. Cosette was quick to pick up on how none of the others seemed to have noticed the blood dotting the handkerchief, but she didn’t mention it, not wanting to alarm them all any further.

Cosette remained by Éponine’s side after Javert came in to call for Bahorel, Musichetta, and Bossuet to come back out onto the dance floor, the blonde taking the courtesan’s hand and stroking it gently. She supposed that was a perk of not being one of the dancers—Cosette simply hung around the club due to how Marius worked for Javert as one of the stagehands. She sat by Éponine’s side, waiting for her to fully regain consciousness, and it was back to business as usual.

“All right.” Éponine hopped to her feet, brushing the debris off her dress and clapping her hands together briskly. “I must get dressed, the duke’s expecting me.”

Once Éponine had peeled off her clothes, leaving herself stark naked, Cosette brought her an elegant red gown and helped her into it, Éponine leaning over the vanity table and holding her breath as Cosette tightened her corset.

“The duke—he seemed a little off when I was dancing with him,” Éponine muttered, sharply inhaling as Cosette tightened her corset further. “He was aloof.”

“You’ll get to him in no time, I’m sure,” Cosette assured her, tugging on the strings of Éponine’s corset once more before tying them firmly into place. “You can do that with anyone.”

Éponine nodded, letting out a great huff of breath once her corset was in place and pinning her hair up into an artfully arranged bun, a couple of tendrils of hair framing her face. Cosette watched as Éponine pinned her hair up, telling her a little too cheerily to try and take her mind off what had happened earlier, “With a patron like that duke, you could become the next Sarah Bernhardt!”

Éponine’s eyes flitted to the little photograph of Sarah Bernhardt that she had tucked into the upper part of frame of her vanity mirror as she clipped on her diamond earrings. “You really think I could be like her?”

“Oh, I know you can,” Cosette replied matter-of-factly. “You’ve got the talent. You’ll be commanding the great stages of Europe in no time!”

“I’ll be a real actress,” Éponine murmured to herself as she straightened up after pulling a pair of velvet black evening gloves on, looking at herself in the mirror. “And then I’ll fly away from here.”

She turned around at the sound of Javert’s voice as he entered her chambers, asking, “Is everything all right, Éponine?”

“Oh, of course, why wouldn’t they be?” Éponine flashed him a little grin, smoothing out her skirts before striking a pose, resisting a laugh as she did so. “How do I look? Like a smouldering temptress?”

The corners of Javert’s mouth turned up in the barest smile as he made his way over to her. “That duke will gobble you up in no time.”

Éponine squealed with delight and jumped up and down, clapping her hands together before turning to Cosette and grabbing the small blonde’s hands, the two of them bouncing up and down as their laughter filled the room. It wasn’t long before Javert told her to go to the elephant, reminding her that she shouldn’t keep the duke waiting.

Meanwhile, Enjolras was in the courtyard below with Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jehan, and Feuilly, Grantaire having gone off somewhere to hang around the dancers and have a drink with them behind the scenes. The dim light from the half-moon illuminated the courtyard well enough for Enjolras to see the people passing by as well as the elephant looming above them, where he was to meet Éponine in. Courfeyrac couldn’t shut up about everything Enjolras was supposed to do at his meeting with Éponine, working through the list for the fifth goddamn time as Enjolras stood there, lips pressed tightly together.

“I _know_ , Courfeyrac,” Enjolras huffed for what felt like the millionth time as Courfeyrac came to the end of his lengthy monologue. “Reading a bit of poetry to her can’t possibly be _that_ hard.”

“You need to be convincing about it, though!” Jehan piped up. “Poetry must be _passionate_. You need to make her believe you’re really feeling it.”

“I will,” Enjolras promised, trying hard not to roll his eyes. He could probably pull it off; he just thought it was silly, a waste of time.

“You shouldn’t keep her waiting,” Combeferre told Enjolras, reaching out to pat him on the back. “Why don’t you head on into the elephant?”

Enjolras couldn’t help but laugh under his breath at how absurd the statement sounded, even within context. “I still can’t believe she lives in an elephant.”

“The marble man laughs! It’s a miracle!” they heard Grantaire slur, approaching them with yet another bottle of wine in hand. Jehan brought his hand to his mouth to stifle a giggle at how Grantaire was stumbling about, clearly buzzed beyond belief, and the ginger approached him, gently grabbing his arm.

“Come on, let’s get you back inside,” Jehan told him softly, directing Grantaire back into the club so they could go back to see the dancers, leaving Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Feuilly with Enjolras.

“I think I’ll go on up now,” Enjolras told them, taking off his hat. “Mustn’t keep her waiting, like you said.”

Courfeyrac shot him a thumbs-up as Feuilly grinned and told him, “We’ll be waiting here outside the elephant in case anything goes awry.”

Enjolras gave a small smile. “That would be appreciated. Thank you.”

He headed on up, running into Éponine just outside the door, and his mouth went dry upon seeing how she was clad in a sleeveless dress in his absolute favourite shade of scarlet, the elegant skirt and her corset emphasising her curves. “Oh, hello!” Éponine greeted him breathily, eyes darkening as she looked him up and down, licking her lips and smiling. “Shall we go inside?”

Before Enjolras could respond, Éponine was grabbing his hand and opening the door, dragging him inside and shutting the door behind them. It wasn’t long before she ordered him to wait over there by the window as she ducked behind a dressing screen to change out of her dress, calling out that she’d be with him in a few moments. Enjolras had no choice but to wait, taking his hat off and rubbing the brim with his thumb as he gazed down at the courtyard through the heart-shaped window in what seemed to be the forehead of the elephant. Upon catching a glimpse of Courfeyrac, giving him a thumbs-up and an encouraging grin, down below with Combeferre and Feuilly, Enjolras cracked a feeble smile before startling slightly when Éponine spoke again, sultry and seductive.

“Wonderful place for a poetry reading, don’t you think?”

Enjolras turned around and instantly stiffened, muscles tensing up as his gaze slowly travelled down Éponine’s petite form. Black kitten heels adorned with diamond clasps were slipped over transparent black pantyhose, lacy black garters connecting them to her black hourglass corset, three silver buttons sharply contrasting against the pitch-black material and bringing attention to her plentiful cleavage. She had on a sheer, lacy black floor-length dressing gown, her outfit leaving next to nothing to the imagination, her locks of deep brown tumbling down her shoulders and diamonds dangling from her ears. As she stood there with her hands placed on her hips, one knee slightly bent, Enjolras could finally observe her appearance in the light.

Her dark eyes were deep brown, one solid colour, and as she smirked at him, he noticed the dimples in her cheeks, long lashes fluttering. Her tawny skin gave Enjolras the feeling that she wasn’t from around these parts of France, or maybe even this part of Europe, in general—she looked rather exotic with her olive complexion, skin tone warm and golden in the light. North African, perhaps? Or maybe Romani.

Éponine let out a little laugh when Enjolras didn’t respond after several moments had passed, telling him, “You’re staring, pretty boy.”

Enjolras instantly swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and forced himself to look back up into the courtesan’s eyes, his mouth set in a near-straight line. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, no need to be.” Éponine took her time in strolling towards him, that same devilish little smile on her cherry lips. “This poetic enough for you, Monsieur?”

“Um.” Enjolras bit his tongue for a few moments before nodding. “Yes, I suppose it is. Shall we?”

Éponine went over to the little silver cart near a corner of the room, on which a bucket of ice containing an unopened champagne bottle, assorted fruit, and a silver platter topped with a dome sat waiting. “Do you want a little supper? Maybe some champagne?”

She had just popped open the cork to the champagne bottle and was in the midst of pouring a glass when Enjolras replied frankly, “I’d really rather just get it over and done with.”

Éponine’s eyes widened and she slammed the bottle back into the bucket, sharply inhaling, her back to him as she stared straight ahead and let out a few deep breaths through her nose. Composing herself, she turned around and quirked an eyebrow, a corner of her mouth turning up in a little lopsided smirk.

She made her way over to the bed, taking her time in walking, before she placed her leg against the side of the bed and bent her knee slightly before climbing on. “Why don’t you come down here, then?” she asked him breathily, making herself comfortable against the pillows with her legs folded to the side beneath her as she gave him her trademark ‘come hither’ look and tossed her dressing gown over her side to give him a full glimpse of her pretty legs. “Let’s get it over and done with.”

Enjolras pursed his lips, brow furrowing in slight bewilderment. Was this what the others had meant when they said she would seduce him? “I’d prefer to do it standing, if that’s all right with you.”

Éponine’s eyes widened once more, cherry lips slightly apart, straightening up and about to get off the bed before he told her, “It’s all right, _you_ don’t have to stand.” He took the folded sheet of paper out of his pocket, looking down at it before turning his gaze back to her. “It’s a bit on the lengthy side, and I’d like you to be comfortable.”

Éponine swallowed, trying not to look quite so eager as Enjolras went on matter-of-factly, “It’s rather strange—” of course it was, Jehan helped write it “—but I think if you’re open, you might enjoy it.”

She flashed him a little smile. “Oh, I—I’m sure I will!”

He unfolded the sheet of paper and began to read, though he was quickly distracted by the way Éponine splayed herself against the pillows, arms outstretched and eyes closed, breathing heavily and sighing. Enjolras made a slight face of perplexity at that, but he went on nonetheless, even if he didn’t feel like she was paying any attention to his words. As he went on, she trailed her fingers up the length of her legs, tossing her hair over her shoulders and half-succeeding in distracting him from his words; he faltered when she sat up and rubbed her legs together before leaning forward with her elbows on her knees.

“Is everything okay?” she questioned upon noticing how he had faltered.

“Everything is fine,” he assured her, biting his lip. “It just takes a little time for me to… really get into it.” He glanced down at the paper, reading the words he and Jehan had crafted together, and his teeth dug into his bottom lip even further as he muttered, “It takes some time for inspiration to come.”

Éponine’s eyebrows tilted upwards as she got to her feet. “Oh, yes, yes!” She sauntered over to him, light on her feet, that dangerously lascivious look in her dark eyes as she approached him. Up close, she was even smaller in her kitten heels as opposed to her stilettos from earlier, only reaching just a little above his chin, and he bit down hard on his lip once they were face to face. She gazed up straight into his eyes, unabashed, and all the breath was robbed out of his lungs when she grabbed his groin without any ounce of hesitation.

“Does _this_ —” She gave him a firm squeeze, making him let out an involuntary groan, and a smirk formed on her lips “—inspire you?”

Good _God_ —she may have been small, but Enjolras had never met anyone with so strong a grip. Within seconds, he was thrown onto the bed, dazed and disoriented, and before he could register what was happening, she was on top of him in an instant, whispering, “Let’s make love.”

Enjolras swallowed, blue eyes wide with slight alarm. “Make love?” As far as he knew, this hadn’t been part of the plan.

He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned under his breath when she grinded her hips against his, straddling him and asking breathlessly, “Well, this is what you want, isn’t it?”

“I—I came to—” He was at a loss for words, soon silenced by her hand over his mouth before she went to undo his bowtie.

“Can’t you feel the poetry?” She went about practically ripping his shirt open, or at least trying to, before resorting to simply undoing a few of his top buttons. She rolled her hips against his repeatedly, grinding against him, bouncing up and down on him, and Enjolras bit the insides of his cheeks to keep his moans from growing too loud as she did so.

“Come on, feel it!” Éponine grinded against him even more insistently, leaning in to kiss his neck and trail red lipstick marks along the length of his jaw. She was mewling, tossing her head back and moaning out into the night, and Enjolras groaned at the feeling of her crotch grinding against his, feeling himself hardening despite himself.

Éponine undid the button of his pants, looking down, and her eyes instantly widened as her lips formed a small ‘O’. “Big boy!” she breathed out, making Enjolras’ cheeks flame red in mortification.

They probably would have gone much further if Enjolras hadn’t managed to escape from underneath her, leaving her splayed on the bed, and he pulled out the now-wrinkled sheet of paper he had had upon arrival out of his pocket once more, beginning to read, and in the midst of the second verse, he asked upon seeing the wild look in Éponine’s eyes, “Is this all right? Is this what you want?”

Éponine nodded, hair framing her face. “Oh, God, yes, this is what I want! Naughty words!”

Enjolras’ brow furrowed at that, but nevertheless, he went on, though he was quickly distracted by Éponine running her hands all over herself, touching herself through her clothes and moaning. “Oh, so naughty…”

Enjolras was beyond confused at this point, but he continued reading regardless, even when Éponine crawled onto the floor and started writhing about in a fur-lined blanket, still moaning and mewling. Finally, he raised his voice so he’d be heard about the noise she was making, causing her to stop short and sit up, staring at him, mouth slightly agape.

 _Come on,_ feel _it,_ Enjolras told himself fiercely, milking his words for all their worth and doing his best to make it seem as if he truly was a believer of that little thing they called love, and it seemed to be working, with how Éponine was completely enraptured by him, breathing heavily as she kept her gaze fixed on him and him alone.

She got to her feet, tilting her head slightly to the side as her brow creased, evidently trying to read him. He kept on reciting the lines he and Jehan had written, Éponine slowly making her way towards him still with that strange look on her face, as if she was trying to figure him out.

It wasn’t long before he was taking her hand in his own—all a part of the act, Jehan had told him that it would be a nice touch—and then she was spinning him around, the two of them dancing circles around the elephant, and Enjolras didn’t remember the last time he had ever felt like this, his insides all warm and tingly as they whirled around the room. His paper lay forgotten on the floor, Enjolras improvising as he went on—he’d always been good at that—and Éponine guided him in a graceful waltz, the two of them being transported into another world, feet upon the clouds and glitter raining down upon them.

At least, that was what it felt like to her by the time he came to the end of his composition, holding her up in his arms as he dipped her, her hands cupping his face and fingers caressing his jaw as she murmured, “I can’t believe it.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow but said nothing as she went on, breathless, “I’m in love. I’m in love with a young, handsome, talented duke.”

He nearly dropped her right then and there.

“Duke?” he asked, eyes wide. Everything was just starting to make sense. No wonder she had been acting the way she was; there must have been a huge misunderstanding.

Éponine let out a low laugh and closed her eyes, arms circling his neck. “Not that the title’s important, obviously.”

“I’m not a duke,” Enjolras told her, quietly candid.

Éponine’s eyes popped open. “Not a duke?”

Enjolras shook his head, biting his lip and averting his gaze so not to appear quite so sheepish. “I’m only a writer.” That technically wasn’t a lie.

Éponine’s eyes widened even more than they already were. “A _writer_? Oh, _no_!”

She was biting back expletives as she straightened up, out of Enjolras’ arms, while he attempted to explain, “Well, I—Courfeyrac—”

“Oh, God, no.” Éponine turned to face him, eyes wide as saucers as she stated very seriously, “Please don’t tell me you’re another of Courfeyrac’s oh-so-great, charmingly bohemian, tragically impoverished protégés.”

 _What the hell, Courfeyrac?_ Enjolras thought, incredulous. He had known that Courfeyrac was trying to pass them off as a bohemian troupe, but he hadn’t thought the man would have been quite so convincing. “Well, I wouldn’t say _that_ , but I _am_ with him.”

Éponine’s hands flew to her mouth, covering it. “Oh, _no_!” She turned to look out the window to look down at the courtyard, finding that Courfeyrac was nowhere to be seen. “I am going to fucking kill him,” she hissed, mostly to herself.

She hurried over to the door, constantly throwing glances over her shoulder at a thoroughly bewildered Enjolras. “What about the duke? Duke Montparnasse?” she whisper-shouted, opening the door before catching a glimpse of Javert and Montparnasse standing there and letting out a little shriek, slamming the door back shut and falling back against it. “Oh, God, the duke!”

“The duke?” Enjolras hadn’t a clue as to what in the name of God she was talking about, eyebrows nearly knit together, they were so furrowed.

“Well, _hide_!” Éponine hissed, violently gesticulating for him to find a spot where he wouldn’t be seen. “Over there! Out the back! For fuck’s sake, just _hide_!”

She rushed over to him and barely had time to spread her arms out to hide him behind her dressing gown when she heard the door open, whirling around and doing her best to hide Enjolras as Javert entered the room.

“Oh, Éponine!” Javert didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary as he questioned, “Are you decent for Duke Montparnasse? Where on earth were you?”

“Oh, of—of course!” She bumped Enjolras’ face out of the way with her leg after stealing a downwards glance and seeing how he seemed to be trying to catch a glimpse of the duke. “I… I was just waiting!”

Javert didn’t seem too convinced, but whatever his suspicions may have been, he didn’t voice them aloud, turning back around to face Montparnasse. “Monsieur, do allow me to introduce you to Mademoiselle Éponine.”

Éponine noticed how the duke’s eyes roved over her, and, thinking that two could play at that game, did the same with him. He was dressed in a black tailcoat, having taken off his top hat to reveal slicked-back raven-black hair and neatly trimmed sideburns. His almond-shaped eyes were a pale green, his features sharp, and he was attractive, yes, though not nearly as handsome as the golden-haired man she had initially mistook for the duke currently hiding behind her underneath her dressing gown, she thought.

Shaking that last thought out of her mind, Éponine greeted rather hastily, “Monsieur, how wonderful it is for you to take time out of your busy schedule to visit.”

She turned her head to look over her shoulder, finding that Enjolras was now crouched behind the cart of food and appearing to try to sneak a glance at the duke before Éponine gave him a look, effectively making him duck back down. She looked back at Montparnasse and flashed him a flirtatious little smile, hoping she wasn’t exuding any cause for suspicion.

“The pleasure, I fear, will be entirely mine, my dear,” the duke replied, his voice smooth as silk. Éponine shivered slightly at his words, resisting the urge to pull a face—she had long since learnt what clients meant when they said things like that. It looked like she wasn’t going to be getting any pleasure out of this transaction, at least sexually.

Montparnasse took his time in entering the room, Éponine’s arm outstretched to him, and Javert cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll leave you two to become better acquainted.”

The door was soon closed behind them, and Montparnasse took Éponine’s hand to bring it to his lips. “A kiss on the hand may be quite continental…”

Oh, so he was quoting one of the lines from her number. How original.

He slowly straightened back up to look her in the eyes, a lecherous little smile forming on his lips as their eyes met. Éponine forced a breathy little laugh, finishing for him, “But diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”

Enjolras attempted to work his way around the cart unnoticed as Éponine went over to sit on the bed, inviting Montparnasse over to her, only for the duke to remain standing there. “Well, after tonight’s pretty exertions, you must be in need of a refreshment,” he pointed out, just about to turn around and take the bottle of champagne and see Enjolras before Éponine sprung to her feet.

“No! Don’t!” she nearly shrieked, startling Montparnasse out of his wits. Quickly recovering, she made it look as if she had been going for a pose, fluffing her hair as she murmured, “Don’t—don’t you just love the view? Mm?”

Montparnasse looked over and gave a little tight-lipped smile. “Charming.”

He made to turn back to the cart before Éponine squealed and started swishing her dressing gown about. “Oh, I feel like dancing! Come, dance with me!”

Before the duke could open his mouth to protest, she had grabbed his hand and twirled him around a couple of times before she let out a loud, exaggerated sob and dashed to the bed, leaving Montparnasse standing there with a look of absolute confusion and what seemed like slight exasperation on his face.

“Oh, Duke!” she wailed, beating at the mattress with her fist before sitting back up, pointing an accusing finger at him. “Don’t you toy with my emotions!”

Montparnasse’s lips pursed as he took a step closer to her, Éponine whimpering, “You must know the effect you have on women!” She closed her eyes and let out a piteous sob before standing up and grabbing him, dragging him over to the bed. “Let’s make love!”

The duke seemed all too eager to do so, throwing himself into it, and as he was pressing awkward kisses to Éponine’s neck, she violently mouthed to Enjolras, who had stood up, “Get out! Get _out_!”

Her gesticulations pointed him to the door and he had just opened it before seeing Montparnasse’s manservant standing watch outside, slamming the door back shut. Montparnasse was just about to look up, wondering what the hell that could have been, before Éponine pulled him back down, pressing her lips to his. Enjolras went as silently as he could over to the window at Éponine’s silent behest, the courtesan’s eyes on him once more when Montparnasse had his face buried in her neck again.

Enjolras simply stood there rooted to the spot, watching with a furrowed brow—this duke seemed a little too eager in the way he slobbered kisses all over Éponine’s neck, careless and clumsy. Enjolras may not have cared much for love and sex, but that didn’t mean he was totally inexperienced in the latter, and this duke—Montparnasse or whatever his name was—was clearly not doing it in a way that was beneficial to Éponine.

When Enjolras didn’t move, Éponine stopped Montparnasse, crying out, “Wait! Oh, we must wait until opening night!”

“What?” The look on Montparnasse’s face was incredulous as Éponine stood back up, the two of them getting to their feet. “But I just got here!”

“We’ll see each other every day during rehearsal!” Éponine promised him, hastily ushering him to the door. “We must wait! Opening night!” Opening the door, she all but threw him out, calling, “Please get out!”

Slamming the door shut behind her, she turned around just as Enjolras reappeared again, her cheeks on fire. “Do you have _any_ idea what would have happened if you had been found?” she hissed, rapidly approaching him. Her breathing soon became erratic, sweat dotting her forehead as she let out a gasp, and Enjolras barely had time to catch her when she fainted into his arms, nearly falling over from the unexpected weight.

“Éponine?” he whispered. Looking around without a clue as to what to do, he attempted to shake her awake. When that failed, he reached down to lift her into his arms, bridal-style but pathetic, and he walked over to the bed to set her down against the sheets and pillows, not noticing how Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Jehan, and Feuilly had somehow found their way into the elephant and was peeking out at them from behind one of the walls.

Enjolras had just settled Éponine down on the bed when the door opened once again. It was Montparnasse, announcing that he had forgotten his hat before falling silent upon seeing Enjolras hovering above Éponine.

“Foul play?” he asked, cheeks beginning to turn a dangerous red.

Of course Éponine had to choose that moment to finally awaken, coughing slightly as she breathed out, delirious, “Oh, Duke!”

Enjolras was frozen, only able to shake his head in his attempt to silently communicate that this wasn’t what it looked like, and Éponine slowly got up, inch by inch. “Oh, let me introduce you to the writer!” she exclaimed, pushing Enjolras off of her.

“The writer?” Montparnasse asked dubiously, teeth clenched.

“Yes, we were just rehearsing, actually!” Éponine nodded vigorously, getting to her feet and grabbing Enjolras’ wrist.

Montparnasse let out a sarcastic laugh. “‘Rehearsing’?”

When Éponine nodded affirmative once more, the duke grew heated, his cheeks flushing scarlet as he seethed, volume increasing with each word he spoke, “So let me get this straight. You really expect me to believe that scantily clad, in the arms of another man, in the middle of the night, in a goddamn _elephant_ , you were _rehearsing_?”

Jehan jumped out just then, exclaiming impulsively, “How’s the rehearsal going?”

Montparnasse took a step back upon seeing that it was that annoying ginger who had spilled hot soup on him earlier, soon followed by his equally irritating friends. Courfeyrac announced, “Let’s take it from the top!”

Feuilly went over to the piano, running his fingers along the keys to test whether or not the piano was in tune as Combeferre pulled out what they had written so far. Éponine approached Montparnasse, the smallest one among them, and told him, “Yes, I was inspired when we were talking, so I called everyone together for an emergency rehearsal!”

“If you’re rehearsing, then where the hell is Javert?” Montparnasse was quick to retort.

“I didn’t bother him,” Éponine told the duke just as Javert opened the door, eyes wide and face ashen.

“Good Lord, Monsieur, I’m so terribly sorry—” He was just about to go on apologising profusely before Éponine cut him off.

“Oh, no, it’s all right!” Éponine went over to Javert, giving him a meaningful look as she pointedly told him, “The duke knows all about the _emergency rehearsal_.”

Javert blinked a couple of times before he quickly caught on, nodding at her as she explained, “So we could perhaps incorporate the duke’s artistic ideas.”

“We’ve got a new writer on board!” Courfeyrac blurted out before he could stop himself. “His writing’s incredible.”

Enjolras turned his head to shoot Courfeyrac a look of incredulity before the smaller man forced him to look back at the duke and Javert and Éponine. “Oh, yes, it really is,” Éponine agreed. “I’m sure the duke will be a big fan of it. That’s why he’s _so keen to invest_.” She gave Javert a pointed look and he nodded once more.

Montparnasse, though still irritated out of his goddamn mind and bewildered beyond belief, nodded. If it meant having the star courtesan all to himself, then why not? “I am way ahead of you, Monsieur.”

“Well, let’s go on to my office and peruse the paperwork, then.” Javert had just turned around and was heading to the door before Montparnasse spoke.

“What’s the story?”

Javert spun around on the spot. “The story?”

The duke gave him a look. “Well, if I’m to invest, then I need to know the story.”

“The story’s about love!” Jehan offered brightly. “Love overcoming all obstacles!”

Enjolras could barely resist the urge to roll his eyes. Yes, he liked someone who could remain optimistic even in the face of adversity, but good _God_ , Jehan was _much_ too cheery on a constant basis.

“And it’s set in Switzerland,” Combeferre added.

Enjolras looked around the room, noticing the Indian sculpture of an elephant nearby and blurting out, “India, it’s set in India!” His eyes trailed to Éponine, who had had her gaze on him the entire time, and he went on, “And there’s a courtesan.”

“The most beautiful courtesan in all the world,” Jehan sighed. Éponine resisted a little laugh.

“But her kingdom’s invaded by an evil maharajah!” Feuilly got to his feet to add on to the story, making his way back over to the “troupe” to join them once again. “And in order to save the kingdom, she must seduce him.”

“But on the night it’s all supposed to happen, she mistakes a sitar player, one of a group of them, for the evil maharajah,” Jehan added, looking back and forth between Enjolras and Éponine and quickly picking up on the way she was  gazing at him, like he was a puzzle she couldn’t quite figure out. “And she falls in love with him instead!”

“Wait—” Enjolras was just about to open this mouth to voice concern about how closely this mirrored what had just happened—well, Jehan’s interpretation of what had just happened, anyway—before Combeferre nudged him to shut him up.

“The sitar player and the courtesan must hide their love from the evil maharajah,” Combeferre said when Montparnasse gestured for them to go on, still with that slightly dubious look in his eerily pale green eyes.

“And the sitar is magical!” Jehan chimed in. “It can only speak the truth!”

“So it gives the game away?” Montparnasse guessed.

“Yes, exactly!” Éponine confirmed a little too enthusiastically, clapping her hands together and bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet.

They soon got carried away, pushing Montparnasse down into a chair and dancing circles around him as they gave him a little preview of what the show was to be, Enjolras figuring he might as well go along with it, with how this was supposedly going to help them investigate deeper. They were lively in listing out the things to be featured in the show—elephants, bohemians, Indians, courtesans, exotic girls, acrobats, juggling bears, fire-eaters, musclemen, contortionists, and a million other things Enjolras could hardly keep track of, as well as ‘intrigue, danger, and romance’, as Jehan said—and going on and on about how spectacular a show it was going to be, it would run for fifty years.

Things were going quite well—stupendous, actually—until Montparnasse impatiently asked, “Yes, but what happens in the end?”

Everyone froze on the spot, looking back and forth between themselves. That’s it, they were screwed.

Jehan stepped forward to save the day with his never-ending romanticism, declaring, “The courtesan and her sitar player are pulled apart by an evil plan, but in the end their love is just too strong!”

They soon reached the end of their little preview to the duke, having thoroughly trashed the elephant, and they waited with bated breath for Montparnasse’s response. After several excruciating moments of silence, the corners of his mouth turned up in a tiny little smile that didn’t reach his eyes. It never did.

“Generally, I like it.”

Éponine squealed with delight and Courfeyrac let out a whoop, pumping his fist into the air in triumph. Enjolras could hardly believe they had done it.

It was the end of the century, Javert had an investor, and they were finally in.

* * *

Éponine sat at her vanity, brushing her hair as she stared at herself in the mirror, unable to get the golden-haired man out of her head. She couldn’t help but think that he was a kind person underneath that aloof, reserved exterior—she had always liked kind people, never having had enough of those in her life. She had long since grown out of quickly becoming attached to people who showed her kindness, though—they had only ever resulted in her becoming even more damaged than she already was before.

Sighing, she set her hairbrush down on the table and simply sat there, staring at her reflection. The only things keeping her from running away was Javert’s rare fondness for her and the promise of becoming a real actress once _Spectacular Spectacular_ succeeded. She was good at acting, she knew that much—it kept the clients from seeing just how hardened and cynical she was underneath the flirtatious, seductive personality she affected for their sakes, only in this for the money at this point. They all needed to earn their keep somehow.

She was willing to be patient, though. Only one more year at the most, she hoped, and then she’d become a real actress and finally make her way out of the underworld.

Glancing at the window across the room, she saw how the troupe seemed to be throwing a party; she guessed that they were probably drunk out of their minds. If Grantaire happened to be present, then they definitely were, she mused to herself, a wan little smile forming on her lips as she thought about how they were probably high as a kite on opium.

As she got up, she noticed the light on in a window underneath the party, walking closer to see how that golden-haired man was sitting at a typewriter, typing things up and heedless of her watching him from across the street. She longed to know his name, only now realising that she had never caught it.

Lost in her thoughts as she gazed out at the starry night, Éponine sighed, standing at the window, dreaming of how one day, she’d fly away from here; she’d fly far, far away and never look back. She was going to leave this life to yesterday and finally learn to live again.

There was no use in living life from dream to dream, dreading the day when that dream would end. There was only so much a person’s love could do; she was just waiting for love to finally be through with her.

Beginning to climb up the stairs to the roof, barefoot, she looked across the street once again to find that the golden-haired man was no longer visible in the window, and she wondered where he possibly could have gone as she climbed on up, onto the roof, gazing out at the stars sprinkled across the heavens, surrounding the moon and providing a gorgeous backdrop to the Eiffel Tower in the distance.

It was a beautiful night.

Éponine toyed with the skirt of her scarlet dress, letting herself wonder, if only for a fleeting moment, what it might be like if she had someone to share it with.

* * *

Enjolras gazed out at the glittering lights of the Moulin Rouge across the street as he sat perched in his window, listening to the faint sounds of the men partying upstairs, celebrating their victory with absinthe and wine and all other sorts of alcohol as well, triumphant in getting into the club. He had declined going with them, having told them that he had work to do, having decided to get a head-start on his article. He had gotten through about five hundred words before deciding to take a break, having made himself some tea and sitting in the window as he gazed across the street.

He could see movement through the window of the elephant, eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned forward to get a better look, catching a glimpse of a scarlet dress. Éponine’s face soon came into view; the young woman seemed to be deep in thought as she gazed out into the night, her deep brown hair cascading down her shoulders in waves and eyes seeming to sparkle in the moonlight. Enjolras watched her as she paced about before he climbed back inside his flat to sit down at his typewriter once again, not noticing how her gaze fell directly on him.

As he typed up some more of his rough draft, he couldn’t help but steal glances out of the corner of his eye, having noticed the somewhat morose look on Éponine’s face as she stared out at the Montmartre streets and rooftops. She appeared to be lonely, a single dim light on in the elephant, and Enjolras watched her as she began to climb the stairs to the roof. He decided to go to her; maybe she was in need of some company. They all needed it at some point or other.

Enjolras listened to the way the autumn leaves crunched underneath his feet as he strolled out onto the pavements in the darkness, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. It was the wee hours of the morning, the party having raged on upstairs after the men invited a few of the dancers over, the ones Grantaire was acquainted with; turning around to glance back up, Enjolras saw how Courfeyrac had made it up to the roof, drunkenly hollering something incomprehensible, his words lost to the wind. Almost despite himself, Enjolras cracked a little smile at the elfin man’s antics before he turned around once again and went on into the courtyard of the Moulin Rouge, looking up to see Éponine climbing the stairs up to the roof, still with that pensive look deep in her dark eyes.

Enjolras tilted his head to the side as he watched her, walking around the bottom of the elephant and finding a rope dangling on the back. That must have been what Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Jehan, and Feuilly used last night to get into the elephant.

Grabbing onto it, Enjolras began to climb, silent as could be, and somehow, he managed to keep himself from slipping all the way up to the roof, seeing how Éponine had sat down in that comfy little sitting area, an ornate gilded roof shielding it from potential rain or snow or whatnot, heavy orange curtains drawn. She had her back to him, gazing out at the Paris rooftops, deep in thought, and as Enjolras regained his footing, he cleared his throat to alert her of his presence.

Éponine startled, jumping to her feet and letting out a little yelp before turning around and instantly breathing a sigh of relief upon seeing that it was just him. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” she muttered to herself, her hand flying to her heart.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Enjolras put one foot forward, tentative, poised to go away and leave her be should she want him to. “I just wanted to thank you. For helping to get me and my friends the job.”

Éponine let out a breathless little laugh, still rather flustered. “Oh. Oh, of course. It was nothing.”

They stood there like that for several moments, awkward, rooted to the spot as they stared at each other, at a complete loss for words. Several minutes had passed by the time Enjolras broke the silence, saying, “I saw your light on, and you seemed lonely. I just—I came up here to see if you wanted any company. I’ll leave if you want me to.”

Éponine cracked a feeble smile, gesturing to the apartment building across the street, at Courfeyrac hollering out into the night from the roof, and she quipped, “Shouldn’t you be up there partying with them?”

A low, dry laugh fell from Enjolras’ lips as he took another step closer, replying candidly, “It really isn’t my scene. Besides, I’m not very good at holding my liquor. I’m fairly certain a couple of them have opium with them as well, so all the more reason not to go.”

Éponine laughed, a quiet but genuine little sound, and she sat down once again, patting the empty space beside her. “Come sit down.”

Caught slightly off-guard at her unexpected offer, Enjolras hesitated, standing stock-still for a few moments before Éponine laughed softly once again, a grin playing at her lips. “Come on, pretty boy. It’s not like I bite.”

After a few more moments of contemplation, Enjolras decided that he might as well, seeing how he had come up here to see if she wanted some company in the first place. He went over and took a seat beside her, having to duck under the gilded roof before he made himself comfortable beside her, leaving a considerable amount of space between them so not to make her uncomfortable. They stayed like that for some time, sitting in silence and gazing out at the glittering lights of the city, before Éponine spoke.

“I just realised.” Enjolras looked up at the sound of her voice, eyebrows slightly raised. Turning his head to her, he noticed how she let out a breathy little laugh and shook her head, looking back down into her lap. “This is stupid of me, I know, but I never got your name.”

“Oh, it’s Enjolras. Gabriel Enjolras,” he replied, Éponine looking back up at him as he went on, “Most people just call me Enjolras, though. Make of it what you will.”

“Enjolras.” She tested out how the name sounded rolling off her tongue, smiling to herself as she mused, “Handsome name for a handsome man.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Enjolras hadn’t a clue what else to say to the odd little offhand compliment, simply gazing at her as she turned her gaze back to the moon, watching it intently while wispy clouds drifted past.

Her olive skin stood out under the light of the moon, warm and golden, moonlight catching in her deep brown hair, half pinned up. She still had on her cherry red lipstick, lips stained scarlet to match her simple yet elegant dress, sleeveless, the bodice hugging her torso, and he wondered if she was cold, with the autumn chill hanging low in the air, thinking to offer her his maroon coat when he saw her shiver slightly at the breeze. Enjolras found himself wondering how she came to be in a place like this, and before he could stop himself, he asked, “How did you get here?”

Éponine turned to look at him once again, perplexed. “Hmm?”

“How did you come to end up here at the Moulin Rouge?” Enjolras clarified, cheeks flushing pink at his own impudence.

Éponine laughed and looked down into her lap before she looked back up at him, brown eyes locking with blue. “I could ask you the same thing,” she pointed out, a little smile forming on her lips and carving dimples into her cheeks. “I’ve never seen you before until yesterday. Where are you from?”

“There isn’t much to tell. I came here from the south of France to write,” Enjolras told her, shrugging. Again, not technically a lie. Just not the entire truth. After a while, he said, “Forgive me if I’m being impertinent, but where are _you_ from? You don’t look as if you’re from around these parts of Europe.”

Éponine bit her lip to stifle a little smile, breaking eye contact to look back out at the city lights. “I’m not,” she admitted softly. “My mother came here to France from Morocco with me when I was only a baby.”

“Why is that?” Enjolras asked, curious.

“That’s a story for another time,” Éponine told him, her voice soft but firm. “Tell me more about yourself.”

So Enjolras did—as much as he could, anyway, without giving away his and the others’ plan. He told her of how his mother doted on him growing up before she died when he was thirteen, leaving him in the care of his less than adoring father, the rules of the household growing much stricter after the mistress of the house’s death. He spoke of his fascination with writing over the course of his lifetime, six and twenty years, and how he had always liked to dabble in all sorts of the art form. He even talked of his childhood dog, Samuel, reminiscing how he and the Saint Bernard liked to traipse through the French countryside together in the springtimes. He was sure to share only the most basic parts of his life—that way, he would still gain Éponine’s trust without having to really reveal his innermost feelings and memories to her.

Éponine listened intently, thoroughly enraptured by the time Enjolras had come to the end of his lengthy tale of Samuel’s puppies, and he looked at her, his eyes finding hers once more. “What about you?”

Éponine shrugged, pursing her lips. “Well, for one thing, I didn’t have nearly as nice a childhood as you did, but again, that’s a story for another time.” Pausing to mull things over for a bit, she soon went on, “I met Javert about three years ago. I was eighteen and working as a prostitute on the streets—we’ve all got to find a way to eat somehow, don’t we?—and I suppose he just took a shine to me, so now here I am. Same business as before, really, but the pay is a lot better and I have a roof over my head, and I have total control over who my clients are, so I’d take this over being a streetwalker any day.”

“So it was all an act, then?” Enjolras asked, unable to stop himself. “You thought I was the duke and told me you loved me.” There was just no way anyone could fall in love as quickly as Éponine claimed she had, when she mistook him for Duke Montparnasse.

Éponine nodded affirmative, teeth digging into her bottom lip. “Of course it was. I’m a courtesan, Enjolras. I get paid to make men believe what they want to believe.” After a brief pause, she added, “And sometimes women, if they pay enough. I take what I can get.” Leaning in as if to confide in him, she told him quietly, “Personally, I prefer the women most of the time, though a few of the men I’m lucky enough to get aren’t too bad either. They can be quite lovely on occasion.”

Enjolras could only nod, unable to come up with the proper words to respond to that with. A hush fell upon them once again, and they could only gaze out into the night, stars scattered all across the indigo skies, the moon rising high above the Paris rooftops and drawing attention to the Eiffel Tower in the distance. They watched as Jehan and Grantaire joined Courfeyrac on the roof, the three of them singing incredibly off-key into the night, the latter two drunk out of their minds on absinthe and the former high as a kite on opium. Éponine let out a breathy sigh, shivering slightly as a breeze flew past them, making the hair on the back of her neck stand up on end as goosebumps erupted along her exposed skin.

“Are you cold?” Enjolras made to unbutton his coat, preparing to slip it off and drape it over her shoulders. “I can lend you my coat.”

“Oh, I’m fine, don’t bother.” Éponine shook her head as she rubbed her arms, gesturing for Enjolras to keep his coat on. “I wouldn’t want _you_ to be cold.” At the doubtful look on his face, she reassured him, “I’m fine, Enjolras. Really. Don’t worry about it.”

Enjolras found that he liked the way she said his name, effortlessly rolling off his tongue, his name pronounced with such ease by her.

They sat there together for a little while more before Éponine cleared her throat, getting to her feet. “Well, I’d better go,” she told him. “We’ve both got a big day ahead of us.”

Enjolras nodded, standing up, and he soon realised that she was wearing no shoes, the difference between them in height really becoming pronounced then as they stood face to face. The top of her head barely reached his chin; it seemed that he had been right in assuming earlier that she was nearly a head shorter than him. As he gazed down at her, her up at him, they locked eyes.

Éponine gave him a grateful little smile. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For staying here with me. It’s nice having someone I can really talk to.”

Despite himself, Enjolras returned her smile, the corners of his mouth turning up and making the skin around his eyes crinkle slightly. “Anytime,” he replied. “I’ll always be here to keep you company if you need it.”

Éponine giggled, pearly white teeth visible between her cherry lips as her smile grew a little wider. “Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”

After standing there another good long while, she reached up to pat him on the shoulder, a curious little smile on her face as she tried to make sense of the strange, unreadable look on his face before deciding to save it for later.

“Good night, Enjolras.”

Try as he might, he couldn’t help but smile back; he didn’t know what it was that made the way she spoke his name so pleasing to the ear, but it was beginning to grow on him.

“Good night, Éponine.”

* * *

Unbeknownst to both Éponine and Enjolras as they were engaged in deep conversation on the roof of the elephant, Javert seemed to have bitten off much more than he could chew with Montparnasse, getting much more than he had bargained for. The two of them sat in Javert’s dimly lit office, going over the papers he had prepared for them prior to Montparnasse’s arrival at the Moulin Rouge.

Montparnasse skimmed one of the papers Javert handed him, taking his cigar out of his mouth to tell him rather offhandedly, “You know, converting the Moulin Rouge into a theatre will cost an enormous amount of money.”

Javert nodded, eyebrows creasing as he awaited what Montparnasse was going to say next.

“So in return, I’ll require a contract that binds Éponine exclusively to me,” the duke explained, fixing his eyes on those of the man sitting before him.

Disdain overtook Javert at Montparnasse’s almost abhorrent request, though he didn’t dare let it show on his face. How could anyone go about treating someone else like an object to own without any hint of remorse?

“Of course, I’ll also need some security,” Montparnasse went on, stroking the top of his hat in his lap and seeming rather dismissive of the whole thing, though maybe that was simply his attitude. “I’ll need the deeds to the Moulin Rouge.”

Javert looked down at the paper Montparnasse then pushed over to his side of the desk, reading over the words and biting his lip, rather concerned with how much the duke was asking for. “Monsieur—”

“Don’t think that I’m naive, Javert!” Montparnasse snapped, interrupting him and slamming his fists down on the table. “I _will_ hold the deeds to the Moulin Rouge!”

Javert said nothing else, holding his tongue and waiting to see if Montparnasse would say anything else, and so the duke did.

“If there are any shenanigans,” he said, his voice dangerously low, “my manservant Guelemer—” He looked over his shoulder at the burly man standing ominously in the shadows, nodding at him “—will deal with it in the only language you underworld show folk will understand.”

Javert simply sat there frozen as Guelemer flexed his arms, cracking his knuckles and staring straight at him with a grim look in his beady eyes.

“Éponine _will_ be mine,” Montparnasse declared firmly. “I’m not a jealous man, so don’t mistake me for one. I just don’t like other people touching my things.”

Javert nodded slowly, seeing no other choice but to agree with what the duke was saying. He wasn’t on a suicide mission.

“And don’t think I’ve forgotten about how I helped you rise to the top here, Javert,” Montparnasse told him, the slight curl of his lips chilling to the bone. “I can tear down all your hard work and have you thrown into the same jail you were born in at any moment.”

“You were the one who gave me the means of doing so,” Javert reminded the duke through clenched teeth, his grip on the arms of his chair tightening. “Might I remind you that they weren’t exactly legal?”

Montparnasse laughed, running his fingers through his hair and pushing it back. “Oh, but who would they believe—a duke from high society, or some commoner from the underworld who, _might I remind you_ , was born inside a jail to a gypsy mother?”

Javert resisted the urge to lunge across the desk right then and there and strangle Montparnasse. He should have known the duke wasn’t above resorting to blackmail.

“Very well, then.” Javert reached across to begrudgingly shake Montparnasse’s hand, his grip firm. Once he had dropped the duke’s hand like a hot potato, he finally signed his name on the papers, sealing the deal.

 

**PARIS, 1900**

The next few months or so were a blur—rehearsals began once the Moulin Rouge had been renovated into a theatre, Enjolras helping out the others with their investigations while balancing those with coming up with a solid plot to their show, and more often than not, Éponine was around at their place, adding in her own touches. She often skipped out on supper with Montparnasse, though Javert urged her to go whenever the duke was beginning to grow suspicious; it wasn’t too bad an arrangement, having supper with him once every two weeks or so, while spending every other night at the troupe’s flat and laughing with Grantaire as the other men attempted to work out the show’s storyline, needing an adequate cover for their drug investigations.

Enjolras made time during the nights to get closer to Éponine, the two of them often alone together in her elephant to steal time, blowing off steam by just talking to each other. Over the course of that time, he found that she was incredible at weaving stories together, helping him and the others out with writing the show and helping it get closer to the final product. She was smart, independent, charming, beautiful, and she was beginning to grow on Enjolras, even if he didn’t quite realise it.

Things weren’t always all fine and dandy, however—over the course of those few months, Éponine was beginning to have more frequent fainting spells, coughing fits seizing her at random moments throughout the day, though medicine from Joly, the young doctor who hung around the Moulin Rouge because of Bossuet and Musichetta, helped alleviate it somewhat. He saw no cause for concern as of right now, so Éponine went about things as she always did.

Before they knew it, the new year was upon them—a new century. They were halfway through perfecting the script, taking time off to celebrate the turn of the twentieth century, and once again, Enjolras and Éponine were together at the elephant, Éponine having invented yet another reason to avoid Montparnasse.

Snow drifted down outside as the sound of fireworks exploded through the air, multicoloured sparks dancing across the starry night, and they were up on the roof, bundled up in blankets in that little sitting area and laughing about something Éponine had said, their champagne lying abandoned on the little table nearby. It was comfortable, Éponine having finally allowed Enjolras to lend her his coat after seeing how she shivered uncontrollably; in return, she had insisted on wrapping blankets around him until he was as warm as she was.

Éponine let out a breathless laugh once her giggles died down, gazing out at the city and watching the fireworks in the distance. “Oh, it’s such a beautiful night,” she murmured, subconsciously moving closer to Enjolras before reaching out to take her glass of champagne and take a sip. She looked tiny in his coat, positively drowning in the thing, and a corner of Enjolras’ mouth turned up in a little smile at the sight.

“It is, isn’t it?” He reached for his own champagne glass, chuckling when Éponine clinked it against his before bringing it to his mouth to take a sip. “Happy New Year, ’Ponine.”

Éponine smiled at the little nickname he had for her. “Happy New Year, ’Jolras.”

That was another recent development—they had taken to calling each other ’Ponine and ’Jolras, little nicknames reserved specifically for them to call each other. Éponine had grown to trust him over the past three months since he arrived; she was beginning to open up to him, little by little, unfolding the details of her life and her past bit by bit.

They settled back down, watching how Grantaire howled out into the night from the rooftops across the street, an empty bottle of wine that he had most likely finished all on his own dangling from his hand. Éponine laughed, waving at the drunkard when he caught sight of her, and she looked down into her lap, hugging herself tightly as she shivered at another winter wind that came by.

“Can I be honest with you?” Éponine murmured out of the blue, prompting Enjolras to look up and turn his head to look at her.

He reached out to tentatively place a hand over hers. “Always.”

“I can’t afford to fall in love with anyone,” she admitted, turning her hand over to lace her fingers through his. Letting out a low laugh, slightly derisive, she muttered, “Not that I’ve ever wanted to, really. I used to once upon a time, I guess. But then I got here.”

“How _did_ you get here?” Enjolras pressed gently, giving her hand a small squeeze. Over time, he’d come to like the way her hand felt in his—so much smaller than his own, and yet it felt like a perfect fit. “Forgive me for prying. You just haven’t told me. You don’t have to, of course.”

“Oh, it’s okay. I think I’m ready to talk about it now,” Éponine told him, her voice hardly above a whisper.

Enjolras waited for her to start speaking again, holding his breath until she started, “My mother came here with me from Morocco when I was a baby to look for my father. He’d been in Morocco before running back to France, before she found out she was carrying me, and she found him eventually and bore him four more children. Their relationship never really got back to what it had been before when it was just them, before she had me, so things… didn’t work out between them, to say the least. They gave away my two youngest brothers, and the oldest one of them ran off when he was eleven, just before I myself ran away from home. Never looked back.”

Enjolras bit his lip, looking down into his lap. “What about that other sibling?”

“Oh, my sister.” Éponine cracked a wan smile. “Last I heard, my mother was dead, and apparently my father and Azelma are in America now. I wouldn’t know for sure, really; I haven’t seen my family in four years.”

After a brief pause to gather her thoughts, Éponine continued, “I was seventeen when I first ran off; I was chasing my dream of becoming an actress. I ended up being a streetwalker for about a year, before, as you know, I met Javert when I was eighteen.”

Enjolras nodded, seemingly unaware of the way he leaned in just slightly when Éponine did.

“He grew fond of me for some reason,” Éponine told him, letting out a small laugh. “Took me here to the Moulin Rouge, gave me a job and everything. It’s been over three years and now here I am, I guess—star courtesan of the Moulin Rouge.” She gazed off wistfully into the distance, murmuring, “Their sparkling diamond.”

Enjolras could only stare at her, rather shocked by just how much she had shared with him. From what he had heard, she wasn’t one to speak so casually of such things, making her opening up to him all the more significant. She would probably know a thing or two about whether or not they were really dealing diamorphine in the club.

He let the thought slip his mind for once, though, the two of them simply sitting there together as Éponine said quietly, “I can’t fall in love with anyone. I’d lose my job for sure.”

Enjolras had no idea what to say to that, at a loss for words, so Éponine decided to fill the silence with a question that had been nagging at the back of her mind for a while now. “Why are you the way you are, Enjolras?”

He let out a nervous little laugh. “What do you mean?”

“You’re so reserved,” Éponine clarified. “Aloof. You keep your distance. Why is that?”

Enjolras pondered his response to that for several moments, only now really coming to terms with how standoffish he tended to be. “Well, for one thing, I make it a rule to follow my head, not my heart,” he replied. Admittedly a feeble excuse.

Éponine laughed and brought her champagne glass to her mouth, lips brushing the brim. “That’s a little bit worrisome.”

“Says you,” Enjolras retorted good-naturedly without missing a beat, “the girl who can’t afford to fall in love.”

“Oh, shut up. Sometimes someone comes along and makes me want to break that rule,” Éponine informed him, utterly failing at stifling a smile as she reached across and shoved him lightly. “Maybe you should give it a chance.”

“What, following my heart?” Enjolras questioned, raising an eyebrow sceptically.

“Yes, of course,” Éponine said, as if it was obvious. “It could do you a whole lot of good.”

“Or a whole lot of damage,” Enjolras pointed out. “I thought you of all people would leave me alone on this subject. Jehan harasses me enough already about all that love stuff.”

Éponine threw her head back and let out a great loud cackle, nearly dropping her champagne glass. Enjolras couldn’t help but chuckle; her laughter was infectious.

Once Éponine’s laughter had toned down, curiosity at her earlier words overtook Enjolras, so he asked tentatively, “What did you mean by how sometimes someone comes along and makes you want to break your rule about not falling in love?”

Éponine shrugged, taking her hand out of his to plant the palms of her hands firmly behind her, leaning back slightly. “I’m only human, ’Jolras. In the end, the heart wants what it wants.”

“Have you ever acted on those feelings, though?” Enjolras asked, brow furrowing.

Éponine bit her lip and looked down into her lap, shaking her head. “Never really had them reciprocated. They left, I moved on.”

“Oh.” Enjolras nodded, looking down into his lap and taking a few sips of his champagne, missing how Éponine looked at him just then, an unreadable look in her dark eyes. Something akin to longing.

They sat there together for some time more before the wind picked up, snow drifting down at a heavier pace, and Éponine shivered, bringing her hand to her mouth as she coughed, low and throaty. It wasn’t until a few minutes later that she finally stopped coughing, shivering once more at the gradual drop in temperature; she turned to Enjolras, finding that his eyes were on her.

“Well, it’s getting late,” she murmured, reluctantly taking his coat off of herself and handing it back over to him, unable to keep herself from shivering when the cold air engulfed her. “I should probably go.”

Enjolras nodded, dropping the blankets from around him to pull on his coat as they both got to their feet. Noticing the way Éponine was trembling in the cold, Enjolras took a few of the blankets and wrapped them around her, smiling at how small she looked in them.

Éponine smiled at him, and in a moment of impulse, she stood on tiptoe to lean up and press her lips to his cheek in a soft kiss. “Good night, Enjolras,” she whispered in his ear before backing down, the smile on her face almost shy.

The spot on his cheek where Éponine kissed him tingled when her lips left his skin; Enjolras had to keep himself from reaching up to brush his fingers against it as he breathed out in response, “Good night, Éponine.”

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?” she asked, and if he didn’t know better, he might have thought there was a little bit of hope evident in her tone of voice.

Enjolras smiled and nodded. He was smiling a lot more often nowadays, and usually, if not always, in her presence. “I’ll see you then.”

* * *

“Enjolras. _Enjolras_. Enjolras! Hello, Enjolras?”

Enjolras was finally roused out of his trance by a sharp smack to his arm, courtesy of Courfeyrac. “Huh?”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes, gesturing to how Combeferre had a notebook open. “We’re going over what we did this week. Our latest findings. How the show is going so far. All that jazz.” Courfeyrac fixed Enjolras with a pointed gaze, narrowing his eyes at the golden-haired man and leaning in closer until their noses were nearly touching as he asked, “What did _you_ do this week besides spend time with Éponine?”

“I found out they mostly deal opium back there,” Enjolras replied, “but that’s perfectly legal. No cause for alarm.”

“Yes, but do they have diamorphine or not?” Courfeyrac questioned, growing impatient, if Enjolras was going to go by the way he stomped his foot on the ground petulantly.

“I still don’t know!” Enjolras snapped. “I’ll find out in my own time, all right? Just trust me.”

Courfeyrac stared at Enjolras for a few moments more, still not quite convinced, before he finally walked off, though he still stole a doubtful glance over his shoulder as Enjolras went back to being lost in his thoughts, staring out the window at the club across the street. Specifically, the elephant in which Éponine resided.

Damn it, why couldn’t he get her out of his head?

Her words from New Year’s kept echoing in his mind, even after a month and a half, bouncing about in his head and rendering him unable to think extensively of anything else. She’d urged him to follow his heart for once instead of his head, right after she confided into him of how sometimes someone would come along and make her want to break her rule of not falling in love. He kept wondering what the hell she might have meant by that before always coming to the conclusion that it was probably him overthinking things as usual.

Still, there was the way she said his name—so delicately, like it was something sacred. And often, when he looked into her eyes, he could see how she let her guard down to talk to him. She had come to trust him completely, unconditionally, and so had he with her.

He kept thinking of the strange tension in the air during that last time they stole time together, just a couple of nights ago, a tension that had never been present before. There was the way she kept holding his gaze, trying to communicate something he still couldn’t quite figure out with simply her eyes. He couldn’t help but wonder about how she had kissed his cheek on New Year’s; it was almost embarrassing how much time he spent trying to work out whether that was simply platonic or if it meant something more.

Maybe he should try following her advice and listen to his heart for once instead of his head, if only this one time.

* * *

“Are you okay, darling? Something on your mind?”

Éponine resisted the urge to flinch at how Montparnasse called her by that little pet name, uncomfortable with the way he kept calling her that along with such words like ‘dear’ or ‘sweetheart’. She had never liked being referred to as such; she liked her own name just fine, thank you very much.

They were having yet another supper at his extravagant place, their surroundings lavishly decorated, and once again, Éponine was lost in the array of thoughts clouding her mind. Much of her dinner remained untouched, sitting there before her on the long table as Montparnasse sat at the other end, somewhat clueless as he dug into his own dinner before noticing how Éponine seemed to have spaced out, staring off into space with her chin in her hand, elbow on the marble table.

Éponine shook her head resolutely, mustering a smile at the duke and successfully suppressing an oncoming coughing fit. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

“Well, your dinner isn’t going to eat itself,” Montparnasse told her, giving her a little smile. Really, he might have been appealing to her, with his fine looks and silky smooth way of talking, had her thoughts not already been focused on someone else entirely.

Try as she might, she couldn’t shake the thought of how she’d much rather be with Enjolras and his little troupe right now, biting back a smile as her gaze drifted towards the enormous, elaborate chandelier dangling from the ceiling, thinking of how Grantaire would swing from it and it probably would have crashed down by now.

They ate their dinner in silence, Éponine having nothing else to say than what Montparnasse wanted to hear, and it wasn’t long before Montparnasse was dismissing his manservant, Guelemer, and escorting Éponine to his chambers once the maids had come by to take their empty plates away.

“Something bothering you, sweetheart?” Montparnasse questioned once he had shut and locked the door behind him, Éponine fidgeting slightly in place as she went over to sit down on the bed, slight dread pooling in the pit of her stomach. Nights together like this had become almost habitual, but being used to it didn’t mean she liked it.

Éponine shook her head, reaching up to take the pins out of her hair to take it out of its bun, letting her hair tumble down her shoulders and plastering a smile on her face as she lied through her teeth. “Nothing at all, my dear duke.”

Resigned, she began to take off her clothes, one by one until she was left in simply her underwear, and she lay back against the sheets, closing her eyes and taking in a deep breath through her nose when a half-naked Montparnasse climbed onto her and began to press kisses all over her neck, clumsy, rushed, clearly thinking only of his own pleasure. Éponine had wanted to keep putting it off until opening night, but it was obvious Montparnasse had other intentions, so she let him do as he pleased for fear of what might happen should she refuse.

While the duke grunted and spent himself inside her as she lay there motionless, one could hardly blame her for thinking instead of a certain golden-haired writer the entire time.

* * *

As usual, Enjolras found his way back to Éponine, going back to the elephant the very next night and finding her on the roof once more, sitting pensive, deep in thought. Clearing his throat to alert her of his presence, he began to walk over gingerly just as she turned around to look at him, her lips curving into a little smile upon seeing that it was him.

“Hi,” she greeted breathlessly once he was sitting by her side. “I wasn’t expecting you to come tonight.”

Enjolras’ cheeks flushed pink as he looked down into his lap, twiddling his thumbs. “I wanted to come see you.”

Éponine’s face grew hot at his words and she averted her gaze, shivering at the breeze that swept by. “Do you want to go inside?” she asked him. “It’s cold out. Wouldn’t want to catch a chill, with all the work we still have to do on the show.”

Enjolras nodded a little too quickly in agreement, trailing behind her when she got to her feet and began to descend the stairs back into the elephant, him close behind her, and they were soon in close quarters once again, warmth surrounding them like a welcoming hug. Éponine sighed at the feeling, going to sit on the bed and crossing her legs while Enjolras stood there, watching her.

“You okay there, pretty boy?” she asked lightly when he simply stood there, unable to come up with a single word. It was so unlike him to be at a loss like this.

“I’ve just been thinking.” He took a step closer before he stopped in his tracks. “About what you said on New Year’s. You told me to follow my heart instead of my head, even if it’s just once.”

“Yes, and what about it?” Éponine was attentive as Enjolras walked towards her, taking a seat at the edge of the bed once he had reached her.

“Well, I’ve tried doing as you told me to, and so far the only thing I’ve achieved is feeling overwhelmed,” Enjolras admitted, looking down and toying with the hem of his coat. “And there was that thing you said about how sometimes someone would come along and make you change your mind about your ‘not falling in love’ rule.”

Éponine blushed under the dim yellow light, biting her lip anxiously. “Yes, and…?”

“Forget it.” Enjolras got to his feet, shaking his head and letting out a breathy, derisive laugh. “It was just a passing thought anyway. Besides, it would never work.”

“What wouldn’t?” Éponine asked, now incredulous.

“Us,” Enjolras replied simply, turning around to face her.

Éponine’s eyebrows went up, nearly disappearing into her hairline, as she asked rather sharply, “What makes you say that?”

“Your advice got me thinking, all right?” Enjolras let out a sigh of vexation and went over to sit on the ottoman near the door, frustrated by his inability to put his thoughts into words. “We’ve been talking so much, and I’ve come to really trust you, more than anyone else I know here. Lately, I’ve been confused about what exactly my feelings for you are—I’ve never been the best at differentiating between platonic and romantic feelings.”

“What—what are you saying?” Éponine asked, now beyond baffled.

“What I’m saying is I’m _confused_ ,” Enjolras told her, getting up to pace the room. “I’ve never been in love before; how am I supposed to know what it is and what it isn’t?”

“Hold on.” Éponine got up and went over to him, grabbing him by the arms to stop him in his tracks as she brought him to stand face to face with her. “What are you saying? Are you in love with me?”

Enjolras’ eyes found hers, blue meeting brown, as she said that, and he sucked in a deep breath to try and compose himself. “I don’t know. Are _you_?”

Éponine let go of his arms to look down at her feet, mumbling, “I told you, ’Jolras. I can’t fall in love with anyone. It would only end badly.”

Enjolras bowed his head and nodded in resigned understanding, going back to stand by the window as he gazed out at the city, Éponine left standing there. She looked down at her feet, letting out a near-inaudible sigh as she recalled how she had been thinking of Enjolras the whole time she was in bed with Montparnasse. God, she had felt so guilty about it afterwards, but she couldn’t keep herself from envisioning Enjolras instead of the duke lying with her, no matter how hard she tried—and good God, did she try.

“I thought of you, you know,” she told him quietly in the smallest voice he’d ever heard her speak in.

Enjolras turned around, fixing Éponine with a curious gaze. “What do you mean?”

She lifted her head, eyes gazing straight into his as she took tentative steps towards him, and in a single instant, he could see everything in her eyes—vulnerability, fear, regret, and yet also something akin to excitement, as well as something that very much resembled yearning. “When I was with the duke. Sleeping with him. I couldn’t stop myself from thinking of you the entire time even when I tried.”

She was so close, all it took was a single step forward for Enjolras to be standing directly before her, gazing down at her, never breaking eye contact. “What?” he managed to finally choke out.

“I thought of you,” Éponine reiterated, cheeks flushing pink under the dim yellow light, but even still, she never took her eyes off of his. “When I was with the duke, last night. I kept imagining it was you in bed with me instead of him. It was the only thing that got me through the night.”

Enjolras’ heart nearly stopped then, and he muttered, “I thought you weren’t allowed to fall in love.”

“I did say that sometimes someone comes along and makes me want to break that rule,” Éponine reminded him, letting out a little laugh. “I just never had those feelings reciprocated, which is why I’m asking you now—do you love me?”

Enjolras bit his lip, unable to come up with a response to her almost inappropriately blunt question. “I—I don’t know. I don’t even know what love is supposed to feel like.”

Éponine looked at him for some time, trying to figure him out, before she stood on tiptoe and leaned in to softly, tenderly press her lips to his.

Enjolras’ breath caught in his throat and his eyes widened the second Éponine’s lips met his own, just barely brushing his, giving him every opportunity to back away at any moment should he want to do so. Instead, he stood there dumbstruck, frozen for several moments, before he closed his eyes and gingerly returned the kiss, leaning in and kissing her back, gently, affectionately. She reached up, arms circling his neck, as he wrapped his own arms around her waist, pulling her in and kissing her with a fierce sort of passion he hadn’t known he had in him until that very moment, feeling the way her fingers tangled in his golden curls. His heart was racing a mile a minute, pounding so hard he thought she might hear it, blood roaring in his ears as they were borne away to another world, a world in which it was only them and nothing else mattered. He could feel everything in that single kiss—passion, longing, tenderness, vulnerability, absolute trust—and he kissed her harder still, dipping her just slightly and letting out a little sigh against her lips when she smiled.

When at last they broke apart for air, their breathing had synced, and Éponine let out a breathless little giggle. “Well?”

Enjolras leaned in, his forehead brushing against hers; he closed his eyes, a deep sigh escaping his lungs. A little smile formed on his lips and he chuckled softly. If this was what being in love felt like, then by God, sign him up.

“Is this what it’s supposed to feel like?” he asked her, voice soft.

“I would think so, yes,” Éponine quipped, giggling.

Enjolras sighed and opened his eyes to meet hers, murmuring, “Well, then, I believe there might be something between us.” _I think I might be falling in love with you,_ he thought, but didn’t say.

The bright smile that lit up her face just then could end wars, bringing light into the darkness, and she whispered, “Something between us. Sounds about right.”

He pulled her back into another kiss, this one bearing none of the hesitation nor gentleness of the first, fierce and purposeful, and it wasn’t long before they were blindly stumbling back to bed, nearly tripping over furniture and themselves before they had fallen back against the sheets, Enjolras on top of Éponine, groaning as she kissed him furiously, clumps of golden hair gathered in her fists. It was only when she was beginning to undo his shirt did Enjolras break away from her, his breathing heavy, laboured.

“What about the duke?” he asked her hoarsely, staring down at her. “He would go ballistic if he ever finds out.”

“To hell with the duke,” Éponine said, ripping Enjolras’ shirt open and wasting no time in tearing it off his back to toss it aside. “We’ll just have to keep this a secret from everyone else.”

Enjolras nodded breathlessly. He could do that. A secret love affair. No big deal.

His lips were soon on hers once again, the two of them kissing madly as his hands fumbled to undo the strings of her corset once her dress was a heap of crimson on the floor, his own clothes lying abandoned by the bed. A high-pitched moan fell from her lips when his hand slipped between her legs, brushing against the spot where she needed him most, and he lost himself to the sound of her moans, her squeals, her breathless cries of his name, thoughts of the disastrous potential consequences thoroughly slipping his mind as they threw all caution to the wind.

As his large hands roved over her body, tracing her curves, caressing her tawny skin, his lips moving insistently against hers before moving to press kisses to every available part of her body, all he could focus on was the sparkling diamond.

_Head or heart?_

For the first time in his life, he chose the latter.

* * *

Enjolras remembered everything about their first night together in vivid detail, though a few moments in particular stood out to him.

He remembered the way Éponine had undone his clothes piece by piece, her small hands sure and confident. Pulling him down towards her to capture his lips in a fiery kiss, their clothing lying abandoned on the floor.

He remembered the way she had looked at him, dark eyes tender, affectionate, completely trusting as she let him explore her body. Little gasps and moans escaping her lips as he touched her everywhere, pressing kisses to every expanse of bare skin he could reach, her olive skin golden in the dim yellow light.

He remembered her gently guiding him as he lined himself up and entered her, little by little. Her soft gasp at the sensation of him slowly stretching her and the way she had grabbed onto him, arms wrapping tight around his bare, sweat-stained back. Pulling him flush against her with his name on the tip of her tongue as he readily set the pace with a low groan of her name.

He remembered her hot clutch all around him, a vice-like clench. Shuddering, squeezing her eyes shut and burying her face in his shoulder, gasping and moaning, repeating his name like a prayer as she came apart at the seams in his arms, her nails digging into his back.

He remembered how he didn’t think he’d ever felt anything so _right_ , all his previous indifferences to such things like making love flying completely out the window. Finally careening past the edge of his own desire and spending himself inside her with a strangled groan, her name on his lips.

He remembered the way their eyes had met in their post-sex haze, the smile on Éponine’s face more than enough to rival the moon and stars.

He remembered thinking how this certainly hadn’t been at all what he was expecting when he first came to Paris, but looking at it now, he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

* * *

Enjolras collapsed beside Éponine, chest heaving from his erratic breaths as he slowly, slowly drifted back to earth, regaining his focus and groaning as he turned onto his side, Éponine having pulled the blankets over themselves. She was curled into herself, still twitching, trembling from the intensity of her final climax, and she didn’t hesitate to scoot closer when she and Enjolras were both under the covers together, his strong arms wrapping around her as they made themselves comfortable. She sighed and curled into him, feeling safe in his embrace, and the corners of her mouth quirked up slightly in a small smile when she felt his lips brush against the top of her head. Before she could stop them from coming, a steady stream of tears were beginning to leak out of the corners of her eyes, and she sniffled, attempting to wipe the tears away.

Enjolras pulled back slightly, brow furrowing in concern at the sight of how she was crying, shaking slightly as she wept. “’Ponine, are you all right?”

She mustered a smile through her tears and looked up to meet his eyes, nodding. “I’ve never been better.”

Enjolras reached up with one hand to cup her jaw, tenderly wiping away her tears with his thumb; the soft way he was gazing at her and the feeling of his gentle thumb brushing against her tear-stained cheeks was just too much for Éponine, and she began to cry even more, shoulders shaking.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, letting out a watery laugh. “It’s just—” She couldn’t come up with the words. How was she supposed to thank him for the best night she had had in what felt like forever?

She could still feel the way he had grasped her hips, gentle but firm, as he drove her into the bed and made her moan in a way she hadn’t in God knew how long; how he had buried his face between her legs and made her see stars with his tongue despite her repeated reassurance that he didn’t have to do that if he didn’t want to; the taste of his kisses on her lips, hot and heavy against her neck, her breasts, her thighs. He had been so attentive, so caring, impossibly gentle with her, determined to make sure she got as much out of it as he had, maybe even more than he did, and she couldn’t remember the last time she did this for pleasure instead of survival.

“Thank you,” she whispered at last, leaning into him and letting her forehead rest against his firm chest, breathing in his scent. A light sheen of sweat coated the both of them and they both smelled like they’d just had sex, but she didn’t care, snuggling as close to him as possible and breathing out a contented sigh, managing to suppress the coughing fit beginning to build up in her lungs.

“You’re going to be bad for business, I can tell,” Éponine mumbled as she was drifting off, when she felt Enjolras’ lips on the top of her head once again.

Enjolras’ soft chuckle was the last thing she heard before she finally succumbed to sleep’s sweet embrace.

* * *

“Any new leads, lads?” Courfeyrac questioned, standing by Combeferre at the desk, the latter having sat down to type up some more on _Spectacular Spectacular_ at his typewriter. Grantaire was drinking again—no surprise there—while Feuilly had looked up from his sketchbook; Jehan was off in a little corner, scribbling furiously on a notepad his ideas for the show before he would hand them off to Combeferre.

Feuilly shook his head. “All they’ve got back there is opium.”

“So you’ve been back there?” Courfeyrac asked, perking up.

Feuilly laughed dryly. “No, but Enjolras here has.”

“He’s been back there a _lot_ ,” Grantaire piped up oh so helpfully, the knowing smirk on his face making Enjolras blush scarlet to the roots of his hair.

Combeferre looked up from his typewriter to fix Enjolras with an enquiring look. “Yes, why _are_ you at the club so often nowadays?”

Enjolras opened his mouth to answer before he closed it again, rendered speechless at being put on the spot, nearly all the men’s eyes on him. Only Jehan remained blissfully oblivious, although that could have to do with the fact that he was the only one excluding Grantaire who knew exactly why Enjolras had been taking more and more frequent trips to the Moulin Rouge, having walked in on him and Éponine while they had been in the throes of passion in her dressing room.

Grantaire had the widest, most infuriating shit-eating grin on his face, thoroughly enjoying the way Enjolras squirmed at Combeferre’s unassuming question. Really, it was a wonder that Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Feuilly hadn’t caught on yet, with how frequently Enjolras came stumbling home much later than they did, and often with faint red lipstick marks smeared all over his face, most prominently on his lips.

Combeferre raised his eyebrows at Enjolras’ lack of a response, eventually clicking his tongue and saying, “All right, we’ll get back to you.”

Enjolras felt the breath escape his lungs as the others moved on, though that didn’t keep Grantaire from getting up and walking over to him, nearly tripping over his feet as he did so and clicking his tongue, shaking his head.

“What do you want, R?” Enjolras muttered, looking down at his feet and pointedly avoiding Grantaire’s gaze.

“Just wanted to talk about how absolutely fucking _thick_ everyone else here is,” Grantaire replied with a flippant shrug of his shoulders, grabbing a chair and dragging it over to plop down next to Enjolras. “I mean, _really_. How have they not realised you and Éponine are sneaking around together behind that snotty duke’s back?”

“Grantaire!” Enjolras fiercely shushed him, eyes widening with outrage as he reached across to smack the man. “Keep your voice down!”

“You do realise they’re going to find out sooner or later, right?” Grantaire pointed out to a flustered Enjolras, remaining unfazed. “I mean, everyone there in the club’s found out. Chetta, Bossuet, Bahorel, Joly… even Marius and Cosette. It’s all they can talk about when that duke guy isn’t around. Only Javert hasn’t heard, but he’s bound to sooner or later.” Grantaire took a swig of his wine, letting out a deep sigh once he had swallowed it and shrugging once again. “Then again, maybe not. He’s got a lot of his own business to attend to.”

He then bid Enjolras adieu before sauntering off to join Jehan and help the ginger out in coming up with the next scene in the show, leaving Enjolras to sit there, completely dumbfounded.

* * *

“I’ll see you tomorrow at rehearsal?” Éponine asked breathlessly in between kisses, fingers tangled in Enjolras’ hair.

“Of course,” Enjolras replied, lightly tickling her sides as he kissed her back equally fervently and making her giggle. “I’ll be there.”

“Stop that!” Éponine shoved his hands off of her waist to stop him from tickling her, still in fits of giggles. “I’ll see you tomorrow! The duke’s waiting for me, I have to get myself cleaned up so he won’t suspect anything.”

Enjolras finally pulled away from her, a breathless smile on his face as he gazed at her. Her cherry-red lipstick was smudged, her hair in slight disarray, and she was gazing at him with the brightest smile on her face, dimples prominent in her cheeks. She giggled as she looked at him—why, he didn’t know, though he knew it wouldn’t be long before she was telling him to leave so she’d have time to prepare for her next meeting with Montparnasse, so Enjolras leaned in to kiss her forehead before he bid her a tender goodbye and left her dressing room.

He had a bit of a spring in his step as he walked back to his flat, which was practically floating on air by Enjolras standards, and he was humming one of the tunes Feuilly had composed for _Spectacular Spectacular_ as he walked leisurely up the stairs, his hand barely brushing the railing. He had just closed the door behind him when he reached his flat and turned around when he stopped in his tracks.

There, standing by the window, was Combeferre.

“What—what are you doing here?” Enjolras asked, eyes narrowing slightly in vague suspicion, caught completely off-guard.

“Good evening to you too, Enjolras,” Combeferre replied wryly, letting out a low laugh. “Has anyone told you you’ve got lipstick all over your face?”

Instantly, Enjolras turned to the mirror hanging just by the door, and it was just as Combeferre had said—he had scarlet lipstick marks smeared all over his lips, his cheeks, his chin, undoubtedly a result of Éponine pouncing on him and peppering him with kisses almost the moment he entered her dressing room earlier. No wonder she had been giggling so much before he left.

Enjolras frowned to himself and went to sit on the bed as Combeferre took a seat in the chair before the desk by the window. “It’s late, why did you come here?”

Combeferre leaned back in his seat, hands shoved into his pockets as he shrugged. “Just wanted to confirm my suspicions. I can leave now if you want.”

He had just gotten up and was halfway to the door when Enjolras said, “Wait.”

Combeferre turned around with a raised eyebrow, suppressing a smile at the conflicted look on Enjolras’ face. It might have been comical had the situation not been so serious. “What is it?”

“How long have you known?” Enjolras asked sheepishly, looking up to meet Combeferre’s gaze.

Combeferre shrugged once again. “Like I said, I’ve had my suspicions. I’ve been having them for a couple of weeks now; you’ve been acting differently for a while. I think the biggest giveaway was your writing.”

Enjolras’ throat tightened. “What about it?”

“Nothing bad, I promise,” Combeferre clarified. “I might even say it’s improved.” Pausing to take a breath, he soon continued, “It’s just that you had such a plain tone in your writing before; when you read it out loud, it was best read in a monotone. I just read your most recent draft of your article, you know, your article on our investigation, and your tone’s become a lot more optimistic. You’ve been more creative in crafting your words. More vivid imagery. I thought it might have to do with how you’ve been spending more and more time with Éponine.” Lips twitching in his attempt to suppress a little smile as he eyed the lipstick marks on Enjolras’ face, he commented, “Looks like I was right.”

Enjolras didn’t say anything, staying silent for several moments and soon prompting Combeferre to speak again. “What is it?”

“You’re not going to give me shit for it?” Enjolras asked, raising an eyebrow. The words ‘my secret love affair with Éponine’ remained unspoken, but they hung suspended in the air, heavily implied.

Combeferre laughed at Enjolras’ unexpected use of profanity, and in such a casual manner too. “Of course not! Why would I?”

He trudged across the room to stand before Enjolras on the bed, patting him on the shoulder. “Just be careful, all right? That duke holds a lot of power. Who knows what he could do to you if he ever finds out…” Combeferre trailed off, not wanting to think of it any further.

Enjolras nodded as he looked up and met Combeferre’s eyes, biting his lip. “I will.”

* * *

It was almost ridiculous how easy it was for them to keep coming up with a variety of different reasons to avoid Montparnasse, Éponine often mused to herself in amusement.

About a month and a week had passed since that first night she and Enjolras spent together, that night when they gave themselves to each other completely for the first time, and, almost despite herself, she was falling hard and fast. It was miraculous how Montparnasse hadn’t caught on, never suspecting that she was having a secret love affair with one of the writers of the show behind his back; she supposed there were some perks to how self-centred the duke was.

Even though Montparnasse was largely unaware of how Éponine and Enjolras were sneaking around together on a near-daily basis, there were times when he nearly discovered them together in some extremely compromising positions. Éponine would never forget the time she had barely had time to detach her lips from Enjolras’ and hastily jump out of his lap, the two of them springing to their feet upon hearing the doorknob to her dressing room turning mere moments before Montparnasse had entered. One particularly memorable occasion they had almost been caught was one of the rare instances when they had remembered to lock the door, though that hadn’t stopped Montparnasse from attempting to barge in anyway; Enjolras had been kneeling before Éponine as she sat on a chair by the window with his face between her legs just when Montparnasse began to pound incessantly on the mahogany, calling out for Éponine. Looking back on it now, she found it remarkable how the duke _still_ hadn’t caught on, even with the sheer volume of her moans.

She was sitting with Montparnasse now, the two of them sitting before the stage and watching as the others went through a scene that Jehan had insisted needed perfecting. Enjolras was off to the side of the stage, going over the script with Courfeyrac, and she didn’t miss how he kept stealing glances over at her, a corner of his mouth turning up in the barest hint of a crooked smile every time as she struggled to keep her smile from growing too wide.

Soon enough, Enjolras was approaching her and Montparnasse with a copy of the script in hand, teeth digging into his bottom lip. Montparnasse raised his eyebrows suspiciously when Enjolras knelt down before them, saying, “If you would be so kind, Monsieur, may I steal Éponine away for a bit later? We’ve got to work on ‘the lovers meet in the sitar player’s humble abode’ scene, and I was thinking we could work on it some more tonight.”

Éponine was quick to agree, nodding in assent, though Montparnasse clearly had other things in mind, turning to Éponine and protesting, “But I’ve prepared us a supper in the gothic tower tonight!”

Enjolras bit his lip and stood back up, his eyes trailing down to the script in his hand. “Oh, well, then. It’s not that important, I suppose we can find some other time to work on it.”

“How dare you!” Éponine shot to her feet, feigning indignation as she stared up at Enjolras, and his breath caught in his throat, something not lost on Éponine. “That scene’s one of the most important in the show!” Turning to Montparnasse, she informed him, “He and I’ll work on it tonight until I’m…” She stole a sidelong glance at Enjolras and shot him a knowing look, finishing rather implicatively, “Completely satisfied.”

“But my dear—” Montparnasse was just about to protest even more before Éponine raised a finger to press against his lips, silencing him.

“Dear duke! Excuse me.” Éponine proceeded to walk off, not saying another word, and Montparnasse turned his angered gaze to Enjolras, raising his eyebrows.

“I’m sorry” was all Enjolras could manage before he went off to find Éponine once they were out of sight, finding her standing before the staircase leading up to the mezzanine, leaning back against the wall with her arms crossed across her chest.

“Took you long enough,” she told him in a low voice, her mouth stretching out into a grin as she stood on tiptoe to press a quick kiss to his lips in a promise of more before she began to guide him up the stairs, the two of them on the hunt for somewhere secluded so they’d have a little peace and quiet to themselves.

The air was rather musty, dust and cobwebs barely visible in dark corners and beige sheets half-covering the railing since the Moulin Rouge still wasn’t open to the public, about three-quarters of the way through the process of being renovated completely. Éponine pulled Enjolras along before they found themselves a darker part of the mezzanine behind a pillar that she deemed good enough; almost immediately, she threw her arms around Enjolras’ neck and pulled him towards her as she backed up against the pillar, standing on tiptoe and capturing his lips with hers in a fiery kiss.

Enjolras was quick to kiss her back, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing her flush against him as he pushed her up against the pillar, letting out a quiet moan of her name when her tongue delved into his mouth, pulling her as close as physically possible to him. He’d come to crave the taste of her kisses, longing to feel her lips on his own whenever she wasn’t around, so he made up for lost time now, kissing her with everything he had, feeling her underneath his fingers. Prior to coming to Paris, he never expected to fall in love, but by God, he wouldn’t trade this for the world right now, forgetting everything else as he kissed her, passionate, desperate.

The two of them were so wrapped up in each other, they didn’t hear Javert’s booming voice from downstairs. “Bright and early tomorrow morning, everyone! We’ll begin on Act Two: the lovers are discovered!”

Downstairs, frustration overtook Montparnasse in a matter of moments, only several minutes having passed since Éponine left. He got to his feet to pace about, his hat in hand and a scowl on his face, before he finally had it and marched up to Javert, who had just finished dismissing everyone. He turned around when Montparnasse tapped on his shoulder, the duke seething, his face scarlet from poorly suppressed rage.

“What seems to be the problem, Monsieur?” Javert asked rather curtly, his tone clipped. “The supper is arranged for you and Éponine in the gothic tower tonight.”

“You might as well eat it yourself!” Montparnasse snapped. “Her affections are waning!”

“Impossible,” Javert contradicted instantly. At moments such as this, he’d long since learnt that it was usually best to deny such a statement if it would bring reassurance to the speaker.

“Jesus _fuck_ , I know how important her work is, but fucking _hell_ , she’s always at it with that goddamn writer!” Montparnasse burst out, stomping his foot rather petulantly. It took all Javert had in him not to roll his eyes at how childish the duke was being. “If I don’t see her tonight, that’s it, I might as well just leave!”

Javert’s gaze brushed past Montparnasse’s shoulder, his eyes moving upwards, and that was when he saw it—Éponine pressed up against a pillar, wrapped around Enjolras, the two of them locked in a passionate kiss.

His eyes widened at the sight, mouth falling open slightly from his shock, and Montparnasse began to follow his gaze before Javert grabbed his shoulder and turned him back towards himself. “No, Monsieur!”

At the incredulous look on the duke’s face, Javert forced himself to regain his composure, saying coolly, “Éponine will take the night off. I’ll make sure of it.”

Montparnasse nodded, the grim look on his face softening somewhat. “All right, fine. Eight o’clock, then.”

Once the duke had departed, Javert looked up once again, eyes narrowing as he watched how Éponine and Enjolras seemed to be talking before Enjolras leaned in to kiss her forehead in farewell before walking out of sight. Javert took it upon himself to go over and walk up the stairs to the mezzanine, Éponine having begun to walk back towards the staircase, giggling softly to herself, before she stopped in her tracks, eyes widening as they landed on Javert.

“Are you _mad_?” he hissed, stepping closer to her. He rarely got angry with her, if ever, but did she even realise just how much she was risking with her little love affair with Enjolras? “The duke holds the deeds to the Moulin Rouge.”

Éponine’s arms fell limply to her sides as she stared at Javert, rooted to the spot out of fear after having been discovered.

“He’s spending a fortune on you, Éponine,” Javert told her, his voice low and even, though the slight crack in his voice betrayed the smallest hint of desperation. “The man wants to make you a star, he’s given you a beautiful new dressing room, and you’re off dallying with one of the writers.”

Éponine let out a nervous laugh, starting, “Javert, don’t be rid—”

“I saw you together,” he interrupted harshly, brusque and to the point, fixing her with a severe stare. “You and Enjolras.”

As expected, Éponine fell silent.

She was speechless for several moments more before she started stammering, saying, “It—it’s nothing, I swear. Just a—it’s just an infatuation. It’s not—it’s nothing.” She turned away to stand before the railing, looking down and focusing on the dancers below, avoiding the look of utter dismay in Javert’s eyes. She couldn’t stand to see him look so disappointed as a result of her actions.

“Well, the infatuation will end,” Javert stated firmly, stepping up to her and reaching out to take her hand before she snatched it away. Even still, he approached her and she looked up, trepidation swimming in her dark eyes as they met Javert’s austere gaze. “Go to the boy. Tell him it’s over.”

Éponine’s mouth fell open as outrage crossed her face. “You can’t tell me to do that!”

“Éponine.” Javert sighed and brought his hand up to his temple, rubbing it in an attempt to put himself more at ease. “You know how I got to become the manager of the Moulin Rouge.”

Éponine swallowed and nodded, fear beginning to creep into her countenance. “Yes, but it doesn’t matter now! That’s all in the past.”

“That duke threatened to expose me to the public,” Javert told her quietly, “if he doesn’t get you all to himself.”

“But that’s not fair,” Éponine protested, quick to dissent. “He was the one who led you to do it.”

“Yes, but be logical, Éponine—who would they believe, a man like me or a high-standing aristocrat like him?” Javert pointed out.

Horror filled Éponine’s eyes at the thought of losing the closest thing she had to a parental figure in her life. “He wouldn’t.”

“He would,” Javert said grimly. “Which is why you need to break things off with Enjolras. Duke Montparnasse is expecting you in the tower at eight.”

Not waiting for a response, Javert walked away, leaving Éponine alone in that hall, her entire body having gone limp as she stood there in shock. Tears stung her eyes and she tried to rapidly blink them away as she turned around and began to walk through the hall, slowly, lost in a daze. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing Enjolras, only now realising just how much he had come to mean to her; she had fallen head over heels in love with him, longing to spend every waking moment with him and only him.

_Why live life from dream to dream…_

She wheezed then, a coughing fit seizing her, overtaking her, and she brought her hand up to her mouth to stifle her coughs so not to arouse concern as she hastened back to her dressing room, shutting the door behind her and falling to her knees as her coughs grew out of control, air having become scarce, her lungs robbed of breath. Grabbing onto her vanity table, she struggled to get to her feet, nearly collapsing against it as she gasped, her breathing uneven, laboured.

Her coughs soon increased in quantity and volume, attracting the attention of Cosette, who rushed into her dressing room and gasped at the sight of how she was on the verge of fainting, running back out to call for some of the others.

By the time they returned, Éponine had lost consciousness, lying immobile on the floor.

* * *

Joly pressed his hand to an unconscious Éponine’s forehead, her skin covered in a light sheen of sweat, as the others stood by, anxiously waiting for his next words. Bahorel had carried her over to a chaise longue in a corner of her dressing room, now standing by with Bossuet, Musichetta, Marius, and Cosette as they watched Joly examine Éponine.

“Will she be up by tonight?” Cosette asked timidly, recalling the duke’s loud talk of a supper at the gothic tower from earlier.

Joly looked up and bit his lip, shaking his head. “The earliest would be tomorrow morning, maybe longer.”

Marius brought his hand to his mouth as he remembered something, rushing out of the room without further ado to run off to Javert.

He found Javert halfway to the gothic tower, presumably to explain why Éponine was running late, out of breath by the time he caught up to him. “She won’t be coming,” Marius wheezed, bending over and placing his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “Joly said—he said she won’t be awake until tomorrow morning, at the earliest.”

Javert’s eyes widened in alarm, his mouth falling open for about a millisecond before his jaw snapped shut again, nodding at Marius. “Very well, then. I’ll cover for her; you go back and wait with the others.”

Marius nodded, running back off into the Moulin Rouge.

He was in such a rush to get back, he didn’t notice how Enjolras was standing on the narrow balcony outside the window of his flat, a look of disappointment settling in the golden-haired man’s eyes before he went back inside, resigned.

* * *

Javert left the tower heaving a great sigh of relief, having successfully managed to throw off any of Montparnasse’s suspicion through a series of increasingly elaborate lies, spinning tales about how Éponine had gone to confession due to a sudden urge to cleanse herself of her sins and start anew; miraculously, Montparnasse had bought it. Javert strolled leisurely down the path back to the Moulin Rouge, the strong breeze in the air alerting him that summer was fast approaching; things were going just swimmingly, with Montparnasse having made the decision to stay, and Javert was almost smiling as he went back into the club, only to be approached by a tearful Cosette.

“Monsieur, you must come quick,” she told him, tears brimming in her big blue eyes.

Javert’s heart sank into his stomach, dread pooling inside him. He had a sneaking suspicion that this had to do with Éponine, and it couldn’t possibly be anything good, with how Cosette was on the verge of bursting into tears at any given moment.

He let the small blonde guide him to the back of the Moulin Rouge, to the dressing rooms, and he knew before they had even set foot in that little hallway that Cosette was taking him to see Éponine. Cosette’s grip was firm, and soon enough, they were inside the sparkling diamond’s dressing room, Joly numbly sitting by the chaise longue Éponine was lying on with a look of shock on his face as an older physician he had brought in to examine Éponine further got to his feet.

“Monsieur Javert.” The physician approached him, reaching out to shake his hand.

Javert’s throat tightened. “What is it?” he asked thickly.

“Mademoiselle Éponine is dying,” the physician informed him, maintaining eye contact despite the regret visible in his eyes. Cosette brought her hand up to her mouth to muffle a sob. “She has consumption.”

It was as if someone had ripped out Javert’s heart, thrown it onto the ground, and crushed it with their foot. His eyes slowly drifted to Éponine, seeing the sweat on her brow, olive skin having gone frighteningly pale, her face full of malaise even in unconsciousness. “Éponine is dying?” he croaked out.

The closest thing he’d ever had to a daughter…

Javert turned to Cosette, who was openly crying now, doing her best to stifle her sobs with her hands as she looked him in the eye.

“She mustn’t know, Cosette,” Javert told her quietly, his voice betraying pain. Through her tears, Cosette nodded.

The show, after all, had to go on.

* * *

Éponine sat on Enjolras’ bed dressed in only her burgundy silk robe, leaning back against the headboard and staring off into space as Enjolras typed away on his typewriter. It was the middle of the morning, the window open and the flat bathed in golden sunlight; birds chirped outside, flitting happily about, and it might have been a perfect morning had Enjolras not been so discontent. His face betrayed no emotion, though inside, pent-up frustration was beginning to get the best of him—he had waited all night for Éponine, only for her to never show up, and for the first time, despite himself, despite _everything_ he had believed in prior to moving to Paris, he felt a cold stab of jealousy to his heart.

He turned his head to look at her when she coughed, bringing her hand to her throat to steady herself, and before he could stop himself, he was asking her, “Where were you last night?”

Éponine winced at his tone of voice and he regretted it the moment the words were out of his mouth; he hadn’t intended to come off as so harsh. “I told you,” she muttered, looking down into her lap. “I was sick. Can you please stop asking me about it now?”

Enjolras did as she wished, nodding shortly before going back to his typewriter, typing up his edits to Jehan’s most recent incarnation of a few of the scenes. He was humming softly to himself one of the tunes Feuilly had composed as of late, lost in his thoughts before Éponine broke him out of his trance with words he had least expected her to say.

“We have to end this,” she murmured.

Enjolras’ heart stopped. “What are you saying?” he asked slowly, getting to his feet to go over and sit at the edge of the bed, beside her, taking her hand in his.

Éponine shrugged, letting out a derisive little laugh. “Everyone knows. Javert knows. Sooner or later, the duke will find out, too.”

She got up, walking over to the window to gaze out at the city, at the Moulin Rouge across the street. “He threatened to blackmail Javert.”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras asked, unable to keep the urgency out of his voice as he approached her, Éponine turning around once he was beside her to look up into his eyes.

“There’s still a lot I haven’t told you,” she murmured, looking down and taking his hands in her own, looking at their clasped hands and sighing. “Just—please listen to me. All the way through. Please.”

Enjolras brought her hands up to his lips to kiss her knuckles, nodding as he gazed tenderly down at her. “Of course I will.”

Éponine took a deep breath, nodding mostly to herself as she guided Enjolras back to bed, sitting down. “Javert wasn’t always in show business,” Éponine told him, her voice barely above a whisper. “He was born in a jail, did you know that? His mother was a fortune teller while his father was serving time in prison.”

Enjolras bit his lip and nodded, motioning for her to go on.

“He struggled for a long time, four decades, maybe more,” Éponine went on, turning her head to gaze out the window absently as the words came pouring out of her mouth. “It was only a few years before I myself came to the Moulin Rouge when he had an opportunity to make himself a household name to earn himself money.”

She sucked in another deep breath, coughing slightly before suppressing it. “The duke—Montparnasse—he came along and offered Javert this new drug to sell to the guests at the Moulin Rouge. From what I’ve heard of it, it’s really addictive—far more addictive than opium—and it’s what kept them coming, and they often brought even more people with them. The Moulin Rouge had been going through a rough patch before Javert came by and started bringing customers back in, even if his ways of doing so weren’t…” She coughed, looking down into her lap and twiddling her thumbs. “Entirely legal.”

Enjolras’ jaw had gone slack as he stared at Éponine through widened eyes, shaken to the core at this wholly unexpected revelation. She didn’t look up, not seeing how he was staring at her with the utmost shock clear in his eyes, and she murmured, her voice lowering considerably to the point where it was close to inaudible, “Of course, Javert hasn’t dealt diamorphine in a few years now, but that’s not going to stop the duke from using his past against him.”

“But—he was the one who led him to do it in the first place,” Enjolras pointed out slowly, at a complete loss as to what to say. He was hopelessly torn between reporting these newest findings to the troupe and his deepening love for Éponine.

She let out a humourless laugh, still avoiding eye contact. “That’s what I said. But really, as Javert pointed out to me, who would they believe—a man who did anything to work his way up from the gutters or a high-standing aristocrat?”

At last, she looked up, meeting Enjolras’ eyes, and she was horrified to see the look of utter consternation on his face. “Please, ’Jolras,” she begged, grabbing his arms. “You can’t tell anybody about this. You’re the only person I’ve ever told. I’ve lost so much in my life already.” She choked on a sob, bringing one hand up to her mouth to keep it under control as she whispered, “I don’t think I’d be able to handle losing the closest thing I’ve ever gotten to a parent figure in my life.”

She began to cry then, tears spilling from her glassy brown eyes as she looked back down into her lap, shoulders shaking from the force of her silent sobs. Enjolras reached up to cradle her face in his hands, gently lifting her head back up so he could look into her eyes, his heart breaking at the state Éponine was in.

“Hey,” he murmured soothingly, wiping her tears away with his thumbs. “I promise I’ll keep this between us.” He leaned in to kiss her forehead, tender and sweet, before pulling her into an embrace, resting his chin on the top of Éponine’s head as she wept into his chest. “I love you,” he whispered.

And it was the truth. Over the past few months, ever since he first realised he’d started developing feelings for Éponine, he had fallen in love with her, absolutely head over heels. She had come to mean the world to him, he might go so far as to say the entire universe, and she was the sole reason he’d started believing in love, and his life had become so much brighter because of it. He loved her, and he’d do anything within his power to make sure she knew that.

Éponine slowly lifted her head up to meet his gaze, her eyes still watering, red-rimmed from her tears. “I love you, too,” she breathed, and Enjolras felt a flicker of hope before she whispered, “but we still have to end it.”

Before Enjolras could say anything else, Éponine told him, “The duke—he’s a jealous man. _Really_ possessive of me. I don’t—” She choked on another sob, breathing heavily. “I don’t even want to think about what might happen to you if he finds out.”

She loved him so much. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.

“And you know I’ve still had to sleep with him,” she went on, quiet as could be. “Of course, it’s nowhere near as often as we do, but still… The jealousy might drive you mad.”

“I won’t get jealous,” Enjolras assured her immediately, delicately cupping her face in his hands and stroking her cheeks with his thumbs, wiping her face clean of the tear tracks staining her cheeks. “I could—I don’t know, I could write us a song or something. Well, I’ll write the words and have Feuilly put the words to music. The point is, I’ll write us a song, and we can put it in the show.” He leaned in to press his forehead against hers, whispering, “That way, no matter how bad things might get, we’ll still remember how much we love each other.”

Éponine closed her eyes and nodded tearfully. “We have to be more careful.”

“I know,” Enjolras murmured. “We will. I promise.”

He closed the gap between them at last, pressing his lips to hers, and in an instant, they were allowed to forget all that was troubling them, the rest of the world melting away, if only for a single moment. It might have lasted forever or only a second, but too soon, Éponine was breaking away for air, her forehead still on Enjolras’ and his hands still tenderly cradling her face.

“I love you,” she whispered again.

Enjolras closed his eyes, the tiniest ghost of a smile on his face at her affirmation. “I love you.”

_Until the end of time._

* * *

Things were quick to fall back into place.

Rehearsals resumed as usual, Montparnasse was back in good spirits—as good as they got when it came to him, anyway—and Éponine and Enjolras still kept up their little love affair, somehow managing to find time between their jam-packed schedules for trysts in either his flat or her elephant, sometimes her dressing room. It was pure bliss—oftentimes they wound up cuddling in the nude, Enjolras reading his latest work to Éponine for feedback. She turned out to be remarkably good at it, also helping him in drafting out the words to the secret love song he had promised to write for her. It had become a joint effort at this point, not that Enjolras was complaining—Éponine oftentimes exceeded him in writing, finding it easier to wax poetic about how much she loved him. Perhaps it came about as a result of having known Jehan longer than Enjolras had.

The two of them remained oblivious to the fact that Éponine was dying, gradually succumbing to consumption.

They were in the midst of another rehearsal, opening night fast approaching, with how July was coming to an end. Grantaire had volunteered to be in the show as the penniless sitar player, because, in his own words, “why the fuck not, right?” Seeing as he wasn’t of much use to them otherwise besides his liaisons with the dancers, Combeferre and Enjolras had decided to let Grantaire go through with it, once they found that he had a decent singing voice when sober, though they had made sure to raid the closet in which he kept his wine to keep him from drinking too much.

Enjolras was standing in the orchestra pit with Combeferre, paging through the sheet music Feuilly had given him, listening to Grantaire and Éponine singing their song and stealing glances at Éponine on occasion, catching her eye and making her giggle at the smile he’d always give her each time their eyes met. Equally as quickly, though, he always returned to his sheet music so not to arouse suspicion from Montparnasse, who was sitting right there, observing the rehearsal.

Jehan was up onstage, saying something about how the show would end with the magical sitar speaking the truth—“the greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return”—and the courtesan and sitar player reuniting when Guelemer stooped down to Montparnasse’s level, having found fault with the show.

“This ending’s stupid, don’t you think?” he remarked gruffly to the duke. “Why would the courtesan choose the sitar player over the maharajah?” His eyes trailed to Enjolras, who was watching the stage—though really, he was completely focused on Éponine—and Montparnasse’s gaze soon followed his manservant’s, realisation soon dawning on his face as he finally realised what had been going on right under his nose all this time.

They were soon coming to the end, belting out those final notes of the grand finale, and once they had finished, all eyes turned to Montparnasse, expectant.

“I don’t like this ending,” he declared bluntly, stating exactly what was on his mind at that very moment.

Éponine let go of Grantaire, rolling her eyes and seeming to scoff as she crossed her arms across her chest. All around, aghast looks were finding their way onto people’s faces as Javert stepped forward.

“Don’t like the ending, Monsieur?” he repeated slowly, brow furrowing.

Montparnasse rose to his feet, silently fuming. “Why would the courtesan choose a penniless sitar player over the maharajah who’s offering her a lifetime of security and luxury?” he questioned, beginning to clench his fists. “ _That’s_ real love!”

Combeferre and Enjolras exchanged a look, Combeferre’s eyes wide with alarm as they found Enjolras’. The latter could only blink, shock having glued his feet to the spot.

“Once the _sitar player’s_ satisfied his lust, he’ll leave the courtesan with _nothing_ ,” Montparnasse pointed out coolly, crossing his arms across his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras noticed how Éponine immediately dropped her arms to her sides, and he had to stifle a laugh in the gravity of the situation. “I think we should have the courtesan choose the maharajah in the end.”

Jehan sprung forward, shaking his head vigorously. “I’m sorry, Monsieur, but I’m afraid that ending wouldn’t uphold the bohemian ideals of truth, beauty, freedom, and—”

“Do I look like I give a damn about your ridiculous dogma?!” Montparnasse bellowed, cutting Jehan off. Quickly composing himself, he took a deep breath before asking much more calmly, “Why shouldn’t the courtesan end up with the maharajah?”

At this point, Enjolras had had quite enough of this entitled duke’s bullshit, and before he could keep the words from leaving him, he burst out sharply, “Because she doesn’t love you!”

In what felt like the blink of an eye, everyone’s eyes were on him. Combeferre had to keep himself from instantaneously berating Enjolras for his uncharacteristic carelessness, instead simply staring at him with a look of absolute horror upon his face.

Éponine was horrified, fearful eyes widening in alarm as they flicked between Enjolras and Montparnasse, the latter having had whatever suspicions he may have had confirmed by a slip of the tongue on the former’s part. This was it, this was the end of happiness as she knew it.

Enjolras was quick to realise his rash mistake, swiftly correcting himself. “ _Him_. She doesn’t love him.”

It was too late. The damage was done.

Éponine avoided Montparnasse’s steely gaze as he looked around, face flushing red with rage as he quietly seethed, breathing heavily. “Now I see,” he muttered.

His eyes landed on Javert. “Monsieur Javert, I’ll see this ending rewritten with the courtesan choosing the maharajah and without the lovers’ secret song.”

Montparnasse was met only with silence on Javert’s part.

Jehan had just opened his mouth to protest some more before Éponine raised her hand, commanding silence from the room. Enjolras bit his lip as he watched her. _Though she be but little, she is fierce,_ he thought to himself, biting the insides of his cheeks to resist a fond smile.

“That’s quite enough!” she hollered. Her arms dropping to her sides, she began to step off the stage, walking down the steps and approaching Montparnasse.

“The poor duke is being treated _appallingly_ ,” she announced, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “These silly writers are letting their imaginations run away with them.” She walked up to Montparnasse, her steps calculated, steady, and she offered to him in a low voice, “Why don’t you and I have a little supper? Afterwards, we can let Monsieur Javert know how _we_ would prefer the story to end.”

Montparnasse looked at her through narrowed eyes, staying silent for several moments before he nodded, a little smirk forming on his lips. “I knew you’d come around, my dear.”

Enjolras watched this exchange, crestfallen; though he knew it was simply an act on Éponine’s heart, he still couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy deep within him. He scolded himself for it, knowing he was being irrational, but he couldn’t help it, not when Éponine was gazing at Montparnasse the way she presently was, through half-lidded eyes and a seductive little smile on her face.

Later that evening, he waited outside of her dressing room to exchange a few words with her, breath catching in his throat when she stepped out in a beautiful burgundy gown adorned with black lace, envy only eating away at him further at the mental reminder that this wasn’t for him. She turned and saw him there, teeth digging into her bottom lip as she stepped up to him.

“Are you all right?” she asked him softly.

“I just…” He swallowed, doing everything within his power not to let his growing jealousy show on his countenance. “Please. Stay safe.”

Éponine pressed her lips together and nodded. “I will.”

Standing on tiptoe, she leaned in to kiss his cheek, whispering into his ear, “I’m doing this for us.”

Soon afterwards, she departed.

Enjolras could only wander back out into the theatre, onto the empty expanse that had once been a dance floor, the rest of his troupe and many of the dancers sitting around aimlessly, awaiting Éponine’s return. Enjolras sat down at the table Combeferre was at, taking a sip of the drink the latter passed over to him and making a face at the foul taste, instantly setting it back down on the table.

Grantaire wandered over, only slightly tipsy as opposed to flat-out drunk as he usually was, a bottle of wine swinging from his hand as per usual. Enjolras supposed the drunkard’s state of tipsiness was a slight improvement from having to handle him while he was full-on drunk.

“Well, aren’t you looking downright miserable,” Grantaire remarked bluntly as he slammed the bottle down onto the table, nearly smashing it. “Word of advice? Never fall in love with a woman who sells herself. It always ends badly.” Taking the neck of the bottle in his hand once again, he took a swig of wine from it, muttering mostly to himself, “Not that it doesn’t always end up that way.”

In his silence, images were beginning to run through Enjolras’ mind, his imagination starting to run away from him as it tended to do nowadays. Right now, it veered towards the worse—flashes of Montparnasse’s eyes upon Éponine’s face, his hand on hers, his lips caressing her skin… He closed his eyes and shuddered at the thought. It was more than he could stand.

At Enjolras’ lack of a response, Grantaire set the bottle down on the table once again, beginning to walk to the centre of the room. “There is a dance in the brothels of Buenos Aires!” he declared, looking around at the others with a wild look in his eyes, though that could have been a result of the alcohol in his system. Enjolras watched through narrowing eyes, brow creasing as Grantaire went on, “It tells the story of a prostitute and a man who falls in love with her.”

He went over to Bossuet and Joly, Musichetta sitting between them. “I’m going to steal her away now for a bit, thanks,” Grantaire informed them, taking Musichetta’s hand without awaiting a response and bringing her over to the middle of the dance floor, the two of them going to stand parallel to one another, the start of their dance.

Picking up where he left of, Grantaire bellowed, “First there is desire—” He and Musichetta began to walk circles around each other, never quite touching “—then passion—” He grabbed onto her, wasting no time in dipping her low, until the tips of her shoulder-length hair were nearly brushing the ground “—then suspicion!”

They were locked in a furious tango, moving as one across the dance floor, and Enjolras watched, his face betraying no feeling, though innerly he was a whirlwind of emotions.

“When love is for the highest bidder, there can be no trust,” Grantaire proclaimed harshly, his voice echoing through the room. “Without trust, there is no love, and jealousy—yes, jealousy—will drive you _mad_.”

Enjolras’ stomach churned as he bore witness to how Grantaire and Musichetta were burning up the dance floor, telling the story of the prostitute Roxanne and her lover through a fierce tango, so closely mirroring his and Éponine’s own story and making him sick to the stomach. He couldn’t stand it, this toxic swill bordering on unbelievable jealousy that was beginning to take hold of him, making him unable to think straight. The mere idea of her being with Montparnasse was beginning to drive him insane.

There was only so much he could take before he was picking up his things and walking out of the Moulin Rouge, in desperate need of some fresh air and peace and quiet in order to clear his head, wrapping his burgundy summer coat tightly around himself and breathing in its scent—it still smelled of Éponine’s perfume.

He knew damn well Éponine had gone to the tower to save them all from disaster, and he knew he had promised her that he wouldn’t get jealous, but somehow that hadn’t stopped the little goblin inside him from becoming jealous anyway, especially with how this was his first encounter with true genuine love. So jealous he couldn’t even see straight, overpowering the rest of his senses. His heart was crying out for Éponine, feelings that he couldn’t fight no matter how hard he tried bubbling up inside him and rendering everything else irrelevant.

The night was cold and dark, unusually so for midsummer, a gale howling through the city and rushing against Enjolras’ skin, goosebumps erupting along the lengths of his arms as he shivered, looking down at his feet. He wasn’t even sure where he was going; all he knew was that he needed somewhere to clear his mind of the virulent thoughts beginning to overtake him.

Somewhere along the way, he somehow found his way to the gothic tower at which Montparnasse and Éponine were meant to meet, and despite himself, he looked up and saw them on the balcony.

His heart plummeted into the very pit of his stomach when he caught Éponine’s eye, unable to keep himself from seeing red at the sight of the love of his life in the arms of another.

* * *

Éponine sucked in a deep breath as she stood outside the door leading into Montparnasse’s chambers. _You’re doing this for you and Enjolras,_ she told herself fiercely, the thought of him keeping her going as she took in another deep breath and knocked, the door swinging open almost instantly to reveal Montparnasse standing there.

“Good evening, dear duke,” Éponine greeted breathily, taking the veil of black lace off her head so he’d have a full view of her face in the moonlight. “How are you?”

“Couldn’t be better now that you’re here,” Montparnasse replied with a curl of his lip, approaching her and taking her chin in his hand to lift her head up to look into her eyes. “I’m going to make you feel like you’re the only girl in the world, my dear.”

Éponine stiffened for a millisecond before she forced herself to relax once again, nodding. “Well, let’s eat, shall we?”

She was just about to approach the dining table set up in the middle of the room before Montparnasse grabbed her wrist, sheathed by an evening glove, and pulled her towards the blazing fireplace. “What’s the rush?” he asked, the smile on his lips quick to turn sinister, at least in Éponine’s eyes. She didn’t complain, however; she let him drag her over to the cushions before the fireplace, sitting down when he motioned for her to do so.

“So what is the deal with you and that writer?” Montparnasse didn’t attempt to hide his disdain as he cut straight to the point, wrinkling his nose.

“Oh.” Éponine should have expected that this question was coming. “I…” What the hell was she supposed to say?

She got to her feet, turning her back to Montparnasse and gazing into the roaring fire as she slowly peeled off one of her gloves, saying, “He’s got this weird obsession with me. It’s ridiculous, really. I mean… I indulge his fantasy because he’s talented, as are the others in his troupe.”

It pained her to say these words, not meaning almost all of them, but she supposed that was what she had to do in order to make it as an actress. She could do this.

Turning around, she smiled at Montparnasse. “But he doesn’t matter. He’s disposable. He won’t matter to us anymore in just a few months.”

Satisfied with her answer, Montparnasse stepped up to her, taking her chin in his hand once again and leaning in to press his lips to hers. Éponine closed her eyes instantly, not wanting to see his face inching closer to hers and imagining it was Enjolras in place of him; good God, she didn’t think she had ever longed for Enjolras as much as she did in that very moment.

It wasn’t long before they were finally settling down for dinner, sharply dressed waiters bringing out tray after tray of food, a full seven-course meal prepared for them. Éponine brought a napkin to her mouth, coughing slightly and averting her gaze as Montparnasse dug into his first course. They were halfway through their fourth course when Montparnasse got up abruptly, taking his time in walking towards her, his fingers brushing the top of the dining table, trailing his hand along behind him.

“When this production succeeds,” he told her quietly, “I promise you, you’ll no longer be a cancan dancer.” He went up behind her, grasping her arms and leaning down to press a kiss to her exposed shoulder, oblivious to how she tensed slightly. “You’ll be an actress. I’ll make you a star.”

Reaching to take her hand in his, he pulled her to her feet, summoning Guelemer, the burly man holding a cobalt-blue velvet jewellery case, opening it to reveal a stunning choker necklace of glittering diamonds, Éponine’s eyes widening at the sight. Before she could refuse it, Montparnasse was taking the necklace out of its case and carefully placing it around her neck, stepping back to admire how it looked on her, reaching all the way down to her collarbone. He guided her to a mirror, Éponine standing there staring at herself with her crimson lips set in a small ‘O’ out of shock as he stood a little to the side directly behind her, a small smirk on his face.

“Accept this as a gift,” he commanded, placing a firm hand on her shoulder, “from this maharajah to his courtesan.”

Éponine gaped at herself. More accurately, her necklace. Judging by its weight and the sheer amount of diamonds, it must have cost more money than she had ever seen in her life.

“And—the ending?” she managed to say, her breathing rather sporadic. “To the show?”

Montparnasse simply smirked even more, a perilous little thing, as he stepped up behind her, grasping her by the upper arms and leaning down to kiss her shoulder once more. “Let those bohemians keep their fairytale ending,” he whispered into her ear, lips brushing against her earlobe and sending a shiver down her spine.

He brought her out onto the balcony, bathing themselves in moonlight, and she resisted the urge to slap his hands away when they went to grasp her waist, leaning into her from behind and trailing kisses along her shoulder. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, opening her eyes once again as her gaze travelled to the streets below, heart jolting at the sight of a familiar head of golden hair almost directly below them.

At that very moment, Enjolras happened to look up, and they locked eyes.

She could see the turmoil in his blue eyes—anger, frustration, sorrow, guilt, and on top of all that, unbelievable anguish—and a single tear ran down her cheek as she mouthed to him the words to their song.

_I will love you until my dying day…_

“No,” she said abruptly, causing Montparnasse to stop short.

“No?” he repeated after her, his voice low, dangerously even, the exact sort of even voice that told her he was on the verge of exploding.

“No,” she affirmed, turning around and looking up, meeting Montparnasse’s livid gaze. She stood her ground, stubborn as could be, though her breath caught in her throat when he looked over her shoulder, seeing Enjolras in the streets below. His face hardened.

“I see,” Montparnasse breathed, struggling to control his heavy breaths. “It’s one of our very own _penniless sitar players_.”

Éponine forced herself out of his arms, marching back into the tower and flinching when he stormed in after her, slamming the door behind him. Turning around, her eyes widened, fearful for her life at the way he was staring at her, with barely suppressed rage, and she backed away before he stepped up to her and grabbed her wrists.

“You made me believe that you loved me,” he hissed, teeth clenched, a vein in his forehead looking as if it was going to explode.

Éponine spat in his face, cuttingly retorting, “Well, tough fucking luck. I never did.”

She was unable to keep the scream from ripping itself from her throat when he threw her onto the ground, painfully colliding with the marble floors. Groaning, Éponine pulled herself back up, glaring into his eyes obstinately, but before she could dart out of the way, Montparnasse had reached forward and ripped the diamonds off her neck, the necklace breaking in his iron grasp and jewels spilling to the floor.

She made to move, Montparnasse chasing after her as she attempted to distance herself from him, eyes darting around desperately in a search for a way to escape. He was trying to throw himself at her, bordering on raping her, grabbing her and forcefully taking her dress off despite how she struggled against his grasp, locking her between his body and the wall.

Éponine let out a gasp when he ripped off her dress and it puddled at the floor around her feet, closing her eyes and sucking in a deep breath.

With all the power left in her body, she turned around to face him, hand clenching into a fist and soon making forceful contact with his face, sending him tumbling to the ground.

The first thing she registered was the throbbing pain that immediately rushed into her hand, and her breathing became laboured as she grabbed her wrist and brought her injured hand to her chest. She soon took notice of how a bit of blood had gotten onto it, horror overcoming her when she dared to look at Montparnasse, immediately seeing his swollen nose, blood streaming out of his nostrils. She hadn’t thought she would actually break his nose with a single strike.

_Oh, God, what have I done?_

Stooping down to reach for her dress and hastily pull it on, she rushed out of the tower as quickly as her high-heeled feet could take her.

* * *

Enjolras stood by the window of his flat, needing time to get himself together and gather his thoughts, easing back into a more rational state of mind, more into his pre-Paris state of mind. He closed his eyes, sucking in a deep breath and trying to erase the image of Éponine in Montparnasse’s arms from his mind, when he opened his eyes once more at the sound of his door bursting open.

Instantly, Éponine rushed in, unaccompanied, dishevelled, and she grabbed onto him, throwing her arms around his torso and burying her face in his chest. “I couldn’t do it,” she whimpered into his shirt, stifling a sob. “I couldn’t, I just saw you there, and I felt differently and I couldn’t pretend anymore.” She let go of him, her breathing sporadic, hysterical. “And the duke, he saw! He saw and he—” She burst into noisy sobs, leaning forward to bury her face in Enjolras’ chest once more as his arms wrapped around her instinctively, gently shushing her.

“Enjolras,” she whispered, syllables stilted from her sobs. “I love you.”

“It’s going to be all right,” he told her quietly, kissing the top of her head and stroking her hair, heart pounding out of his chest.

“I couldn’t do it,” Éponine repeated, drawing back slightly to look up at him, tears marking her cheeks. “I—I couldn’t, I didn’t want to pretend anymore, I didn’t want to lie, I don’t—” She collapsed against him once more, ignoring the dull pain in her hand as she wept for all they would never be.

“And he knows, ’Jolras,” she whispered. “He knows, and he’ll—”

“It’s going to be all right, you won’t have to pretend anymore,” he told her, pulling back to gaze into her eyes. “We’ll leave. We’ll leave tonight.”

He knew it was rash, reckless—every single thing he hadn’t been prior to coming to Paris—but seeing Éponine in such a state, sobbing and weeping and sinking into deep despair, made his heart tear itself into pieces. At this point, he was willing to do anything to bring a smile to her face again.

Funny how being so madly in love could change a person almost completely.

Éponine stopped short, her breathing short and laboured as Enjolras’ hands cradled her face. “Leave? But—the show—”

“I don’t care,” Enjolras whispered. “I don’t care about the show.” He no longer cared for these drug investigations either, for that matter—he had gotten the information he had wanted, but he couldn’t give it away for it would be betraying his love’s trust, and at this point, after all he had gone through, he would choose love over business in a heartbeat, time and time again. “We have each other, that’s all that matters now.”

Éponine managed a faint smile through her tears, nodding. “As long as we have each other.”

He nodded, leaning in to gently capture her lips in his own, kissing her tenderly, and she melted against him, into him, her arms circling his neck and pulling him closer as she sighed against his lips, still trembling in the aftermath of her sobs. Once they had broken apart, Enjolras told her, “Go to your dressing room, ’Ponine, get the things you need and then meet me back here. Go and pack, I promise I’ll be waiting.”

Éponine gave him a watery smile and nodded in understanding, leaning in to kiss him goodbye before hurrying off. All she wanted now was to run away with the love of her life.

She was finally going to leave the underworld behind.

* * *

Javert stood there, tense as Montparnasse combed his hair back in the mirror, the duke poor at containing his rage, quietly seething. “It’s _him_ ,” he muttered, refusing to say Enjolras’ name as if it were some vile word, unworthy of being spoken by him. “He’s seduced her with his words.”

Tossing the comb aside and turning to Javert, he hissed, “I want her back, Javert. Find her, or I’ll expose you to everyone. Tell her that the show will end _my_ way and she’ll come to me once the curtain falls… or I’ll have that man killed. She’ll be left with nothing.”

Guelemer threw Montparnasse a sidelong glance as Javert’s eyes widened, dread filling the pit of his stomach. “Killed?” Javert repeated hoarsely. “As in… he’ll be dead.”

Montparnasse glanced between him and Guelemer, agonisingly slow in doing so, and he nodded grimly. “Yes, what part of ‘killed’ don’t you understand, you absolute fucking buffoon?”

Javert’s throat tightened. All he could do was nod.

Heading back to the Moulin Rouge, he sought out Éponine, finding her rushing about her dressing room while Cosette stood by, tossing things pell-mell into a suitcase, dressed in only her underclothes. Standing in the doorway, he cleared his throat and Éponine stopped in her tracks, holding up a white nightgown to her chest as she whirled around to see Javert standing there.

“Forgive the intrusion,” he said rather coldly. He found it best to be cold in times such as this.

Éponine rolled her eyes, tossing a small clutch into her suitcase and practically spitting, “You’re wasting your time, Javert.”

She was pulling on a silk robe when Javert took a step past the threshold. “Éponine, you don’t understand.” He looked down at his feet so not to see the look on her face as he told her, “Duke Montparnasse is going to kill Enjolras.”

Éponine’s head snapped up, finding her reflection in the mirror. Javert might as well have taken her heart out of her chest and crushed it beneath his unfeeling heel. Pain seized Éponine’s heart, squeezing it, rendering her breathless, and tears formed in her eyes; she refused to believe it. “No.”

The only thing she could possibly think of that was worse than losing her father figure was having the love of her life die at the hands of her patron.

“He’s insanely jealous,” Javert told her dourly. “Unless you do his ending and come to him again after opening night, he will murder Enjolras.”

Éponine stared at herself in the mirror, knuckles going white from how tightly she was grasping the edge of the vanity, and she reached up to wipe away her tears before straightening up, turning to face Javert and asserting defiantly, “He can’t fucking scare us.”

Javert winced at her foul language, replying, “He’s a powerful man. You know he can do it. He’ll have Enjolras killed and me thrown into jail for my past misdeeds.”

She stood there, adamant, for several moments before she ripped off her robe, throwing it with as much force as she could muster to the ground and storming to a corner of the room to stuff some more things into her suitcase. “What are you doing?” Javert demanded, stepping closer to her.

“I don’t need you anymore!” Éponine shouted, turning around to stand her ground as they came face to face. She was losing control of her temper, shouting with barely concealed fury seeping into her tone, “All my fucking life, I’ve been told I was only worth what someone would _pay_ for me, and then you came along and really made me believe it!” She grabbed a coat Enjolras had lent her, a deep shade of burgundy, and pulled it over her shoulders, wrapping it around herself and letting the oversized fabric nearly swallow her whole. “But Enjolras loves me. He _loves_ me, Javert, and that’s worth _everything_.” She turned around to slam her suitcase shut, avowing, “We’re getting away from you, away from Montparnasse, away from the Moulin Rouge!” She grabbed her suitcase, looking him straight in the eye as she spat, “Goodbye, Javert.”

She was just about to pass through the doorway when Javert sighed and spoke again. “You’re dying, Éponine.”

Éponine’s entire body went limp as she froze in her tracks.

Her breathing was quick to become erratic, short and fickle, as her hand went to her chest to press against her heart through her coat, her other hand grabbing onto the door-frame to keep herself from losing her footing. Her chest heaved, all the air stolen out of her lungs as she gasped softly at this new information, refusing to believe it.

“You’re dying,” Javert repeated, sombre as could be.

Éponine lifelessly turned around to face him, aghast, tears in her red-rimmed eyes. She was intent on disbelieving him, tenacious as she said, “This is just another trick.”

The defiance in her words tore at Javert’s heartstrings. “No, Éponine. The doctor Joly summoned told us.”

Éponine turned to Cosette, who, up until that moment, had been hidden in the shadows, rendered mute. “Cosette?” she whispered, pleading.

Cosette avoided eye contact and looked down at her feet, timidly giving a tiny nod of the head.

Éponine’s arm fell limply to her sides and she looked down, taking in a heavy breath and her eyes fluttering shut, a single tear falling from her eyelashes as she whispered, “I’m dying.”

Everything made so much more sense now—coughing up blood, the frequent fainting spells, the fevers, the night sweats… Even still, it was too much, too much for her to process with everything that had happened; she stumbled over to the vanity and grabbed onto it, nearly collapsing to the ground, completely, utterly overwhelmed. God, she had been such a fool to believe that she would ever live to find her way out of the darkness and finally see the sun.

“You have to send Enjolras away,” Javert told her quietly, his heart breaking a little more with every step he took closer to a visibly devastated Éponine. “Only you can save him.”

Éponine sucked in a deep breath, finally looking up. “He’ll fight for me.”

“He will.” Javert didn’t contradict her on that, inspiring some hope in Éponine before it was quickly diminished when he added, “Unless he believes you don’t love him.”

It was all Éponine could do to keep herself from bursting into tears as she spat out bitterly, “You can’t make me do that.”

“Would you rather live with the guilt of knowing you could have prevented his death?” Javert asked her, making her flinch at the sharpness and severity in his tone.

Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a sob as tears began pouring down her face, leaning against the vanity, dangerously close to falling over.

Javert averted his gaze so he wouldn’t have to look at the heartrending way Éponine whimpered and wept, telling her, “You’re a great actress, Éponine. Make him believe you don’t love him.”

She trembled as she shook her head, stubborn. “No.”

“Use your talent to your advantage, to save him,” Javert said, more urgently this time. “Break his heart to save him. There is no other way.”

Éponine clamped her hands over her mouth to keep the noisy sobs from escaping her throat as she wept, her breathing capricious, unstable.

She loved Enjolras so much.

But she couldn’t stand the thought of having him be murdered due to her failure to intervene. She’d never be able to live out the rest of her numbered days with the guilt.

“The show must go on, Éponine,” Javert reminded her under his breath. “We’re creatures of the underworld. We can’t afford to love. You know this.”

Éponine took in a shaky breath, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply as she nodded.

_What I must do, I will._

Today was the day when dreaming ended.

* * *

Éponine hiked up her skirts in her hands as she made her way up the stairs to Enjolras’ flat, filled with purpose, though her heart broke at the thought of what she had to do. Her steps were slow, heavy, as if to delay the inevitable, though soon, too soon, she was at Enjolras’ door. Dread beginning to fill the void that she had become, her hand went, almost as if of its own accord, to grab onto the doorknob and turn it, pushing the door open.

Enjolras had been standing at the window, turning around at the sound of the click of the doorknob and seeing Éponine standing there, an unreadable expression on her face. He was quick to notice the way her breath hitched as they made eye contact, immediately detecting that something was wrong.

“What’s the matter?” he asked her, brow furrowing slightly in concern.

Éponine took in a deep breath. “I’m staying with the duke. I’m staying with Montparnasse.”

Enjolras tensed. “What?”

“After I left you, he came to see me and offered me everything,” Éponine informed him coldly, slipping into the character of the unfeeling seductress who broke her lover’s heart no matter how much it killed her to do so. “Everything that I’ve ever dreamed of. He has one condition, though.” A pause. “I can never see you again. I’m sorry.”

Enjolras took a step towards her, the look of bewilderment in his blue eyes beginning to grow wild. “What are you talking about?”

“You knew who I was,” Éponine snapped, looking away.

“What are you saying?” Enjolras asked; the need to know what the hell she was talking about was too great. “’Ponine—”

“Don’t call me that,” Éponine interrupted him sharply, pulling away when he reached out for her.

“What about last night?” Enjolras reminded her, his tone having taken on a pleading turn.

Éponine let out a derisive little laugh, turning around to finally meet his gaze. “I didn’t expect you to understand. You see, the difference between us is that _you_ can leave anytime you want, but this is my home. The Moulin Rouge is my home.”

“No.” Enjolras recalled all she had told him, the way she had poured his heart out to him all those nights spent on the roof of her elephant, and he knew, he _knew_ what she was saying wasn’t anywhere near the truth. “There’s something wrong. Tell me what it is. Tell me what’s the matter.”

Éponine stormed towards the door before Enjolras grabbed her arm, pleading desperately, “Tell me the truth!”

She whirled around, and he took a step back at her hard gaze, fire in her dark eyes. “The truth?” she repeated, closing her eyes and sucking in a shaky breath before she opened her eyes once more, rapidly blinking away the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. “All right, I’ll tell you the truth. I don’t love you. I never loved you. You’re a goddamn fool if you thought I ever loved you. How could I?” She laughed scornfully, gesturing at him. “I feel nothing for you. Nothing. You’re _nothing_.”

She practically spat out her last words, and without another glance at Enjolras, not wanting to see the hurt and betrayal in his blue eyes, she ripped her arm out of his grasp and stormed out, leaving him standing there, hardly able to breathe out of sheer shock.

Éponine marched back to the Moulin Rouge, kicking off her heels once inside and sprinting towards her dressing room, slamming the door behind her before she collapsed on the floor, an anguished scream tearing away from her throat as she broke down sobbing. She made no attempt to suppress it, beginning to hyperventilate as she sobbed, tears streaming fast down her ashen face and forming tiny puddles on the wood floor, she was crying so hard. She heard a knock at the door, someone evidently having come along at the sound of her noisy sobs; she could only scream in response, “Leave me be!”

She loathed herself for having done that to him, breaking his heart so mercilessly, beating at the floor with her fists and weeping, her sobs slowly, gradually dwindling down to whimpers as tears streamed steadily down her face. She was deeply aware of how it had been for the better, but the guilt was beginning to eat her up; she had had no other choice—it was either having him murdered or him hating her forever. Either way, she couldn’t win. She never could.

Collapsing onto the floor and curling into herself, she wept, her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot and snot dripping from her nose. She must have looked a mess; so unlike her usual self. She didn’t care.

She’d lost the love of her life. Bitterly, she hoped Montparnasse would be pleased with himself.

* * *

Enjolras stood there stock-still, chest heaving as he attempted again and again to register what had just happened, always to no avail. Éponine’s harsh words echoed in his mind, tearing him apart inside, and he went over to sit down on the bed, his entire body having gone limp as tears rushed into his eyes, clouding his vision.

_I don’t love you. I never loved you. You’re a goddamn fool if you thought I ever loved you._

Absolutely _nothing_ added up, with how just last night, Éponine had been reaffirming her love for him in between sobs after her unfortunate encounter with Montparnasse, but Enjolras had seen the fire in her hardened gaze—something like that couldn’t have possibly been feigned. Had she been leading him on this entire time?

Grabbing the nearest thing he could put his hands on—one of his worn leather-bound notebooks—Enjolras hurled it against the wall, watching how it slammed against the brick and fell to the floor with a dull thud as he tried in vain to process what had just happened. Éponine, the one who had told him to follow his heart instead of his head, had been lying to him this entire time.

His heart shattered in his chest; the pieces might as well have been scattered before him on the floor. Misery was beginning to make way for anger, building up inside him, and he thought about how if he had just gone against what Éponine advised him, if he hadn’t taken a risk and fallen for her despite everything he had previously believed screaming at him not to do it, he wouldn’t be in this absolute mess right now.

Angry at her, angry at himself, angry at the world—damn it, he shouldn’t have listened to her, he should have just stuck with going through life with listening to his head instead of his heart. Just look at what good it had done him.

Her deception hurt the most, by far; Enjolras could hardly believe she could have gone through with such a ploy, fury and jealousy beginning to get the better of him, taking over his senses and bringing out the worst within him. God fucking dammit, why couldn’t he just have ignored her advice? Fat load of good following his heart did him. The one time he took a risk and fell in love against his better judgement, and _of course_ he got his heart completely broken, damaged beyond repair. Really, he should have seen this coming, and he loathed himself for having failed to see the inevitable heartbreak and anguish this would come to cause him.

Before he could stop it from coming, a tormented sob ripped itself from his throat and he broke down, tears running down his face, and no matter how hard he tried to stem the flow, he was unable to keep the tears from rolling down, quietly sobbing, blinded by his anguish and his rage. Jealousy overcame him, crashing over him in waves; how could Éponine choose the man who had attempted to rape her over _him_ , the man who had promised to love her no matter what happened? He wept even harder, crying for her, for them, for all they would never be.

Even with how she had so brutally broken his heart, he still loved her.

He loved her so much, he took one look at the Moulin Rouge across the street from his window and silently vowed never to come near it again, per Éponine’s wishes, no matter how much it killed him to do so.

* * *

The months fell away and opening night was soon upon them, Enjolras hardly ever leaving his flat, wallowing in his misery and slowly going mad from how jealous he had become; he had been alone with his thoughts for so long, the jealousy kept building up inside him, gradually, steadily, until he could no longer think straight from how resentful he had come to be. This was not lost on the others, especially Combeferre, who had been the quickest to realise how Enjolras had abruptly stopped his once-frequent trips to the Moulin Rouge.

It was the day before opening night, Enjolras having been dragged up to the flat above by Courfeyrac, who was currently pacing the room and bemoaning their lack of leads on their investigation. Enjolras sat quietly by, silent as he pondered his inner turmoil and took in deep, shuddering breaths in fruitless attempts to calm himself and begin to think rationally again, and Combeferre had long since taken notice, though he was waiting for an appropriate time to confront Enjolras on it.

“Dammit, it’s been _months_!” Courfeyrac burst out, looking as if he was on the verge of pulling his hair out. “And we’ve still got nothing! What’s the goddamn point of trying to get something out of this investigation at this point? We’ve wasted so much time on it already, we might as well give up and just do the show and then leave.”

“Éponine told me something,” Enjolras said then, his voice hardly above a mutter. Everyone’s heads turned to him, shock plain on their faces; Enjolras hadn’t mentioned Éponine in months now.

Courfeyrac perked up. “What did she tell you?”

Enjolras opened his mouth before thinking against it, closing it once more. “I can’t tell you,” he muttered. “I promised her I wouldn’t.”

Even though she had ripped his heart out of his chest and utterly, mercilessly crushed it to bits, he still refused to break his promise to her.

“Then what’s the point of telling us that she said something in the first place?!” Courfeyrac screeched, finally losing it. Combeferre was quick to get up, hurrying over to place a placating hand on the elfin man’s shoulder, whispering in his ear to calm him, and soon, Courfeyrac’s face had lost its red glow, slowly returning to normal.

“Is everything all right between you two?” Feuilly asked, brow furrowing in worry. “You’ve been holed up in your flat for months and you haven’t mentioned her once until today.”

Enjolras looked down into his lap and let out a contemptuous scoff, crossing his arms across his chest. “Funny how it’s taken you this long to notice,” he muttered darkly, so unlike his usual mannerisms. Combeferre shot him a sharp look at his biting words.

“She’s been a complete mess, you know,” Grantaire remarked out of the blue, bringing his wine bottle to his mouth and taking a swig. Enjolras’ head snapped up at his words.

“What—what are you talking about?” he asked, anxious for her all of a sudden. Yes, even after everything, he still loved her. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop loving her.

“She shuts herself in her dressing room a lot when we’re not at rehearsal,” Grantaire replied. “People passing it say they hear her crying inside. She’s still as good of an actress as ever, but offstage, she’s a total mess.”

Enjolras’ throat tightened at this information, but he forced himself to keep an impassive face, feigning apathy as he said, “I don’t care.”

“Then tell us what she said, if you don’t care about her so much,” Courfeyrac snarked sarcastically before Combeferre smacked him in the arm to shut him up; he then went up to Enjolras, looming over him.

Enjolras looked up into Combeferre’s concerned eyes with a listless look about him. “Enjolras, we know you still care about her. Just tell us what happened.”

Enjolras opened his mouth, and closed it again, shaking his head. He couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to tell them of what had happened, doing everything within his power to spare himself the humiliation.

Really, at this point, he was convinced that he’d be better off dead.

Maybe he could take Éponine down with him, so they’d be together in death as they had been in life.

Yes, that was the only way.

Grantaire had been right. Jealousy had driven him mad, having pushed him completely over the edge.

Without another word, Enjolras got to his feet and made to exit the flat. Tomorrow, at opening night—despite his vow to himself from nearly three months prior—he would pay the Moulin Rouge a visit one last time.

* * *

Enjolras looked down, making sure the gun was properly hidden by his coat, tucked into the waistband of his pants, and he sucked in a deep breath, sharply exhaling. If this was to be his last night on earth, then it would be Éponine’s too.

He looked at himself in the mirror, seeing nothing but a shell of his former self—hollow eyes of blue, golden curls limp, his arms hanging aimlessly at his sides. He had let himself waste away on the outside as he had within, but none of it would matter anymore in a matter of mere hours—if everything went as planned, he’d be dead by then, Éponine dead beside him. Yes. That was the only way, he kept repeating to himself.

He’d gone completely mad.

Rain poured outside, deafening claps of thunder echoing throughout the city and lightning illuminating the overcast skies. Enjolras bundled himself up in his coat, shotgun at his side, and hurried out of his flat, making no attempt to dodge the heavy downpour, pelted with sheets of rain as he marched across the street to the Moulin Rouge. He found his way in through a side entrance, the show already in full swing, though Éponine still had yet to appear onstage; Enjolras dodged Guelemer as he snuck about, soon finding his way backstage.

He wove in and out of the curtains, the stalls, avoiding a suspicious Brujon, and from one particular hiding spot in which he had a view of what was before the stage, he saw how the audience gave a standing ovation, signalling to him that Éponine had made her entrance. Resent bubbling up inside him again, Enjolras went on, determined to finally finish things and put an end to his misery.

Act One was soon coming to an end, the curtain falling and the audience roaring their approval, applause ringing out all throughout the Moulin Rouge, and Enjolras bumped into Grantaire backstage. He groaned inwardly—he just couldn’t seem to avoid the alcoholic no matter how many times he went out of his way to do so.

Grantaire raised his eyebrows upon seeing Enjolras there. “So you’ve come to the Moulin Rouge again at last,” he drawled, giving a half-hearted smirk. “Éponine still loves you, you know.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Enjolras muttered. Grantaire hadn’t heard what she had said to him. There was no way she still loved him, not with the things she had said.

His hand instinctively went to the shotgun at his side, feeling it through his coat; Grantaire’s eyes travelled to where Enjolras’ hand was, eyebrows raising even higher.

“Whatcha got there?” he questioned, suspicion lingering in his tone.

“It’s nothing,” Enjolras brushed it off, his hand quickly falling to his side once more. “Leave me be.”

Grantaire stared at him for a few moments more, evidently trying to read him, and to no avail, before he shrugged and did as he was told, going off. Besides, Act Two would be beginning soon; intermission could only last so long. Without a moment to spare, Enjolras set off to Éponine’s dressing room, unaware of how just moments before he entered, she had taken a vial of medicine, her illness taking hold of her bit by bit.

The door open, he went to stand in the doorway, and upon seeing him in the mirror, Éponine whirled around in the spot, her eyes widening in alarm.

“Enjolras?” she breathed, eyes quick to grow glassy. “No. You can’t be here.”

“I’ve come to end things,” he told her, though there was a lingering hesitation in his step as he stepped towards her.

“Didn’t I already do that?” Éponine snapped, pushing him out of the way as she marched out of the dressing room. “For fuck’s sake, leave me be, I have a show to perform.” She coughed then, her hand going to her chest to press against her heart as she tried fruitlessly to get her coughs under control.

Enjolras followed her, desperate to find out once and for all if she had really never loved him; even with how brutally and cruelly she had rejected him, he still couldn’t help that tiny spark of hope in him. He hated it—he’d clearly been around Jehan for far too long if he still had that slight, although fading, hope. Still, he followed her through the narrow passages backstage, though she was quick at dodging him, soon disappearing out of sight, leaving him standing there, with only his gun for company.

Looked like that was the answer he needed.

Right then and there, he resolved that they were both going to die tonight.

* * *

Jehan wandered about backstage, still at a loss as to how Éponine could have chosen Montparnasse over Enjolras, his fragile heart broken for his friends. It couldn’t be real—Éponine and Enjolras were in love, they adored each other; they couldn’t have possibly fallen out of love so quickly, not with how long it had taken for them to fall into it in the first place. There were still a few minutes to spare before the curtain rose for Act Two, giving Jehan time to mull things over as he paced around aimlessly behind the stage, lost in his thoughts. Bahorel, one of the dancers, soon approached him, a strange look on his face at the way Jehan was muttering to himself.

“You all right there?” he questioned, brow furrowing in mild concern.

“I know she still loves him,” Jehan murmured, evidently meaning Éponine. “There’s got to be a reason.”

“How about the simple fact that one of them is a duke?” Bahorel offered sardonically before walking off, shaking his head. Jehan’s face fell, but he didn’t let that faze him, continuing on before he caught a glimpse of that Montparnasse’s manservant—Guelemer, Jehan thought his name was—approaching Javert, who was standing in the wings.

Quickly, Jehan darted behind a curtain so not to be seen, ears straining to catch what they were saying.

“The boy is here,” he heard Guelemer hiss to Javert.

Though Jehan couldn’t see, Javert blanched at this unwelcome news, gasping under his breath before muttering mostly to himself, “I told Éponine if Enjolras were to come near her again, he’d be killed!”

“He very soon will be,” was Guelemer’s grim reply, menacing, intimidating, and Jehan brought his hand up to his mouth to stifle a gasp.

Everything now added up.

 _He’ll be killed,_ Jehan realised, his stomach sinking at the mere thought. That was it. That was why Éponine was pushing Enjolras away. She was trying to save him, to spare his life.

He needed to find Enjolras and tell him everything right now.

Jehan, not having realised he had been standing on a platform until that unfortunate moment, let out a shriek of alarm when he was lifted speedily up into the air, nearly falling off the platform, and in his fright, he grabbed onto the nearest rope. Looking down, he gulped at the sight of how far up he was; even still, he managed to hoist himself onto the next platform. He needed to warn Enjolras.

He needed to tell him that Éponine had only broken his heart to save him.

* * *

Enjolras lurked in the wings with his gun in hand, his breathing quickly becoming erratic, unstable—almost as unstable as he was in his grief. He had stolen one of the spare costumes out of the vault, now donning it, and he watched Act Two, trying to figure out the right moment to step out onto the stage and pull the trigger on his love before turning it onto himself. Just a few moments more, and they’d be together again in death.

He was so caught up in these delusions, he didn’t realise the burly man creeping towards him with a gun of his own, having every intention to kill him before he could even make it out onto that stage.

It was midway through the end of Act Two when Enjolras decided to creep out onstage, somehow managing to go unnoticed amongst the ensemble. Éponine turned and she visibly paled upon seeing him there, freezing up in place; it alerted to the rest of them that something was wrong, leading them to fall silent as well as Enjolras stepped out of the crowd, shaking as his hand slowly, slowly drifted to his gun.

Tears filled Éponine’s eyes as she looked at him, whispering, “Enjolras?”

Blood roaring in his ears, Enjolras’ shaking hands pulled the gun out of his pocket and lifted it up to aim it at Éponine. Javert stood there frozen as the ensemble screamed and instinctively backed away, unable to breathe at what was to happen next.

He sucked in a trembling breath, letting it out through his mouth before repeating once more, “I’ve come to end things.”

* * *

The blood drained from Éponine’s face at the sight of how Enjolras lifted the gun, and aiming towards her; tears began to flow freely down her cheeks, whatever was left of her heart shattering in her chest. She felt like crying out, anguish eating her up inside at the deranged look in Enjolras’ eyes; he had gone mad with envy and heartbreak, and it was all her fault.

She made no attempt to back down, knowing this was what she deserved for breaking the love of her life so cruelly and completely.

Tears running down her ashen face, Éponine stood her ground—though maybe that was a result of how she was rooted to the spot out of fear at the monster she had transformed Enjolras into. Either way, she would readily embrace death with open arms; she just wanted an end to this misery her wretched life had become.

Even still, somewhere deep inside her, there lay the tiniest lingering hope that maybe there was still a chance to reason with Enjolras. To convince him not to go through with this madness. To tell him that she still loved him.

Dear God, she loved him so.

Shaking uncontrollably from the sheer force of her silent sobs, Éponine opened her mouth and began to softly sing their song.

* * *

Montparnasse’s blood boiled at the sight of that golden-haired man stepping out onto the stage, looking to see Guelemer creeping about in the orchestra pit with his gun in hand. Seething, Montparnasse furiously mouthed, “Kill him!”

All he could think of doing right now was killing Enjolras for daring to come near Éponine and the Moulin Rouge again. How dared he? Even with all he had threatened against him, the man still wasn’t afraid. Montparnasse didn’t know whether to consider him brave or a fool. Perhaps both.

He trusted Guelemer to finish the job. After all, it would only take a single squeeze of the trigger.

* * *

Jehan covered his mouth to keep himself from audibly gasping at how Enjolras aimed a gun at Éponine, though he could see how badly the golden-haired man was shaking, nearly dropping the gun from how hard he was trembling. A quivering finger rested against the trigger, ready to pull it at any moment now.

No. This couldn’t be how it ended, it just _couldn’t_.

Jehan froze. He couldn’t remember his line.

Oh, Jesus Christ, what was it?!

What was his line, what was his line, what was his line… He was so distracted by trying to recall it to memory, he nearly didn’t hear how Éponine began to sing.

“Never knew I could feel like this…”

A light went off in Jehan’s mind. He’d got it.

“Enjolras!”

Gathering his breath, Jehan opened his mouth and hollered from the rafters at the top of his lungs, “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return!”

* * *

Enjolras shook wildly as he struggled to keep the gun up, trying and utterly failing to hold back tears as he looked upon Éponine’s tearful face; she looked so small and helpless as she stood there, though he noted how she didn’t back down, standing there as if challenging him to shoot her. His trembling finger closed around the trigger, chest heaving as he sucked in a deep breath in preparation for what was to come.

It was then when Éponine started to sing their song, her quivering voice barely audible.

“Never knew I could feel like this…”

His head snapped up when he heard a familiar voice holler out his name. It was Jehan.

“The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return!”

In a fleeting instant, Enjolras’ mind cleared in a moment of clarity. He thought back to the times he’d had with Éponine, good and bad and everything in between, and his heart burst in his chest at the memory of how happy she had made him, so ridiculously happy. She had made him so happy. The happiest he had ever been in his life before she so ruthlessly broke his heart.

He looked at Éponine now—olive complexion having gone pale, dark eyes hollow, her cheeks wet with tears.

Enjolras’ gun clattered to the ground.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t.

The smallest ghost of a hopeful smile flitted across Éponine’s face and she continued to sing, almost whispering the words to him.

“It's like I’ve never seen the sky before.” She bit her lip. “Want to vanish inside your kiss…”

Enjolras made to walk off the stage, though that didn’t stop Éponine, turning towards him even as he began to march down the aisle on his way to the exit.

“Every day I'm loving you more and more.”

Even with the ache in his chest, Enjolras didn’t stop walking, not even with how real it all sounded. He couldn’t afford to fool himself again.

“Listen to my heart; can you hear it sing?” Éponine’s tone had become pleading now, pleading for him, begging for him to come back to her, and he stopped in his tracks.

“Come back to me…” She raised her voice, taking in a deep breath. “And forgive everything.”

She let out a gasp then, a sharp pain seizing her in the chest, and her knees buckled slightly, panting and clutching her chest as Enjolras slowly turned around. She didn’t stop singing, even with how it felt as if her lungs were closing in on themselves.

“Seasons may change, winter to spring…”

Her brown eyes caught his blue, and her lips stretched into a watery dimpled smile.

“I love you,” she whispered. She meant it.

Enjolras hesitated, breathing heavily, before he saw the look in her tearful eyes—so tender and raw, and he believed her now. She had truly never stopped loving him, and it showed now on her face.

“Until the end of time,” he quietly finished for her, a low murmur traversing through the audience at the unexpectedness of it all.

He began to walk back up to the stage, Éponine’s smile growing brighter with each step he took closer to her, and they were singing together now, the orchestra having struck up the music once more. Enjolras paid no heed to how Montparnasse seethed in the front row, on the verge of exploding with fury, walking right past him and back up onto the stage, back to Éponine.

Back where he belonged.

They were all singing now, the ensemble having joined in, and Enjolras nearly cried out when he took Éponine’s hands into his own after nearly three months of not knowing her touch; her skin was still soft as ever, her touch comforting him and taking away all his worries. Nothing else mattered now but her.

They were cut off by Jehan’s hollering once again.

“Enjolras! He’s got a gun!” the ginger screamed out from somewhere above them. “They’re trying to kill you!”

“Shut up!” Éponine swiftly hollered back. Enjolras had to stifle a laugh.

Musichetta, somewhere near the front, noticed Guelemer creeping about in the orchestra pit, poised to pounce—or, more accurately, pull the trigger of the gun he grasped in his hand. Without a second thought, Musichetta kicked the gun out of the burly man’s hand, all the way across the room, before kicking the man in the face and returning to the show, quite pleased with herself.

It was remarkable, marvellous, a stunning sight to behold—one might even say spectacular, looking at all of them singing the beautifully arranged score onstage with the elaborate sets and intricate costumes, the two unlikely lovers in the midst of it all. Éponine’s hand slipped into Enjolras’ and their fingers interlocked as the grand finale was coming to a close, and she stole a sidelong glance at him, giving him a teary-eyed smile of utter happiness as he gave her hand a squeeze. Javert smiled, a strange sense of pride washing over him.

_“Truth, beauty, freedom, and love!”_

Montparnasse bolted to his feet, glaring at the stage contemptuously before he turned on his heel, on his way to storm out of the Moulin Rouge before his booted toe made contact with the gun Musichetta had kicked all the way across the room. He stopped, looking down at it, and stooped to pick it up, turning around once again and pointing it at Enjolras as he flew into a rage.

“No! My way!” he roared. “End it  _my_ way!”

He didn’t get very far before Javert was looming in front of him, and before Montparnasse knew it, Javert’s fist was making contact with his face, and he tumbled to the ground as a cry of pain escaped his mouth.

Javert leaned down, all until his face was mere inches from Montparnasse’s, and he muttered to the duke, “You will never come near the Moulin Rouge again, you understand me?”

All Montparnasse could do was spit bitterly in Javert’s face. One final moment of audacity before he got to his feet and hurled the gun to Javert’s feet, turning around and storming out. For good this time.

Smiling triumphantly to himself, Javert made his way back onstage as the finale came to an end, rose petals raining down upon them from the rafters, the audience bursting into raucous applause and instantly getting to their feet as the curtain fell. The thick fabric muffled the standing ovation they received, and Éponine laughed and hugged Enjolras’ arm as he held her close while the others scattered. They could hear the faint sound of Marius calling for them to get into places for the curtain call.

Éponine moved to face Enjolras, hands reaching up to cup his face. “I love you,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Enjolras wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her into a fiery kiss, three months’ worth of longing and desire poured out into a single passionate kiss, holding her tight as her hands snaked up into his hair, fingers tangling in his curls. She sighed against his lips, giddy as she heard him whisper back into the kiss, “I love you, too.”

“Places, everyone! Places for curtain call!” Marius called again. Finally, Éponine and Enjolras broke apart, sweat staining their brow as they gazed into each other’s eyes.

“Come on,” Enjolras murmured, kissing her forehead and letting her grab onto his arm and hug it as they began to walk before Éponine stopped in her tracks, beginning to gasp for air, panting heavily, another coughing fit seizing her whole as she lost her footing.

“’Ponine?” The grin on Enjolras’ face fell away and made way for worry, and he caught her as she fell to the ground, still coughing, convulsing from the force of her wheezes. Distress overcame him as he gently shook her. “Éponine. Are you all right?”

Éponine couldn’t find it in herself to speak, coughing and gasping even more still, curling into Enjolras’ arms as she turned her head to the side, using whatever was left of her energy to bring her hand to her mouth. Enjolras’ brow furrowed as his heart started pounding out of his chest, growing sick with worry at the sight of Éponine in such a state.

“Éponine. ’Ponine. My love, what’s the matter?” he asked again, urgent, desperate. “Éponine!”

She tried to form words, but only more coughs and gasps came.

Enjolras held her tight in his arms as she clung to him, and his heart stopped at the sight of blood dripping out of the corner of her mouth.

“Oh, God,” he murmured, blue eyes widening in shock at the realisation, his heart plummeting into his stomach.

Éponine was dying.

The love of his life was dying.

“Somebody get help!” he shouted wildly, frantically, tears pricking at his eyes. She couldn’t die, not now, not when they still had so much to live for.

Everyone simply stood frozen all around him and Éponine, watching the sorry sight with tears in their eyes.

A single tear ran down Javert’s cheek as he went over to Marius, murmuring to him, “Hold the curtain, and fetch the doctor.”

Enjolras was shaking now, overcome with silent sobs as Éponine convulsed in his arms, coughing violently and wheezing. “I—I—” She gasped and sucked in a shaky breath, lungs deprived of air. “I’m sorry, ’Jolras.” She whimpered, her coughing slowly decreasing in volume, growing more sporadic by the moment. “I—I’m dying.”

“Shhh…” Tears streamed down Enjolras’ cheeks as he silently wept, holding her in his arms and gently shushing her. His trembling thumb went to wipe away the tears leaking out of the corner of her eye as she coughed even more still, uncontrolled, intermittent.

Éponine was panting, her breathing coming in short and strained, as she whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

“You’ll be all right,” Enjolras told her softly, stroking her cheek as he mustered a wan smile through his tears. “You’ll be all right. You’ll be all right.” It sounded more like he was attempting to convince himself rather than her, even though they both knew she was beyond any help. “Please, don’t die,” he begged, his voice hardly above a whisper.

“Cold,” Éponine whispered, trembling uncontrollably in his arms. “I’m so—so cold.”

He wrapped his arms tighter around her as she reached up to grasp his face with shaking hands, barely managing to breathe out, “Hold me. One last time.”

Enjolras did as he was told, holding her tight as she had asked, and the tears kept on coming no matter how many times he tried blinking them back. He couldn’t imagine a life without Éponine. She couldn’t die.

She couldn’t.

“You’re okay,” he whispered to her, leaning in to press his lips to her forehead. “You’re okay.” His tears dripped down onto her brow as he sniffled, breathing, “I love you.”

Éponine stroked his cheeks and managed a feeble smile. “I love you, too,” she told him softly. “But you have to go on, ’Jolras.”

Enjolras let out a slightly hysterical laugh. “I can’t go on without you, though.”

“You’ve got so much to give,” Éponine told him with a faint smile. “So much. Tell our story, Enjolras.”

Enjolras was wracked with sobs, his entire body shaking as he shook his head. “No. No.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Éponine whispered encouragingly. “You _have_ to tell our story, Enjolras. Promise me.” When he didn’t respond, she urged once again, “Promise me!”

Everyone was standing around them, a good distance away, sombre looks upon their faces; rose petals, white and red, were scattered everywhere, surrounding them. Javert was standing a bit off to the side, his whole body completely limp and numbness written all over his face as he tried and failed time and time again to tear his gaze away from the sight of Éponine dying in Enjolras’ arms. Cosette was in Marius’ arms, weeping, while Jehan sobbed into a silently crying Grantaire’s shoulder. Combeferre, Feuilly, and Courfeyrac stood together, numb from the shock of it all, and Musichetta was huddled in Joly’s and Bossuet’s arms with Bahorel standing by them, watching the heartbreaking scene unfold before them, a scene to which they knew would have no happy ending.

Shaking from the force of his sobs, absolute pain and anguish and desperation etched in every muscle on his face, Enjolras managed a slight nod. “I will. I promise.”

Éponine smiled, one last smile as her breathing began to even out. “That way I’ll—I’ll always be with you.” She took in a shaky breath, whispering one last time, “I love you.”

Her panting subsided, ceasing, and her hand fell from Enjolras’ face, going limp at her side. She stilled in his arms, the light fading from her eyes.

She was gone.

Enjolras stared at her limp form in shock, numb and hollow, hardly able to breathe. Her eyes were still wide open, those deep brown eyes he once could have gotten lost in forever. Those deep brown eyes, once so full of life and vivacity, always with a mischievous twinkle in them, now empty.

Enjolras’ whole body shook with quiet sobs as he leaned down, laying his forehead against Éponine’s and letting out an anguished sob, which echoed all around the stage, silent save the sounds of people quietly weeping in the background. Hugging her to him, his sobs steadily increased in volume and he cried out to the night, tears staining his cheeks and disjointed sobs escaping his throat. He trembled and shook, never having cried as hard as he was now, hugging Éponine to his chest, his crying quick to become hysterical. The love of his life, ripped away from him, ripped away from the world all too soon.

Enjolras wept, convulsing with sobs as he cried out for everything they’d never be, all the dreams they’d made that would now never come true.

Éponine. The love of his life. The one who had captured his heart. His everything.

She was dead.

 

**PARIS, 1901**

Enjolras collapses against the back of the chair, struggling to steady his breathing as tears stream down his cheeks. He makes no effort to wipe them away, sitting there and staring out the window at what is now a shell of what the Moulin Rouge once was, and he lets out a hefty sigh, pulling himself back up and collapsing against the lumpy mattress of his bed.

Days had become weeks, which in turn turned into months, and before Enjolras knew it, a whole year had gone by, which led to where he is today—having just finished writing out the story of him and the love of his life.

Éponine.

Not a day goes by in which he doesn’t think of her.

He doubts that he’ll ever love again—he loves Éponine too fiercely to ever stop loving her, even after her death. Then again, what does it matter? It’s not like anyone would ever fall in love with such a broken man as him. He’s been damaged beyond repair, never having been quite the same in the aftermath of Éponine’s untimely demise; he doesn’t think he even remembers the man he was before.

The troupe’s disbanded after finally giving up their investigations, having decided to let Javert off the hook out of grief and pity, the man having just lost the one person dear to him. They’re scattered all across Paris now, each doing their own thing—Jehan’s happy as a poet, Feuilly having found himself a studio to paint in, while Combeferre’s taken up medicine and Courfeyrac’s gone back to writing for a newspaper. Last Enjolras heard, Grantaire is travelling the country now, restless, needing a breath of fresh air for a change; Enjolras can’t blame him. He knows Grantaire had been good friends with Éponine; of course he needs to take his mind off of her death.

Javert closed down the Moulin Rouge shortly after Éponine died and has retired to the countryside, never to be seen again; Enjolras last saw him walking out of the Moulin Rouge with several trunks in tow, a carriage having been waiting for him, one dreary winter morning earlier that year. The dancers have all found work elsewhere. Life goes on.

Life goes on for everyone, it seems, except for Enjolras.

Dawn is breaking by the time Enjolras wakes up from a restless sleep riddled with nightmares; sunlight peeks out from behind the murky clouds as he lethargically gets up and goes over to his typewriter, reading over the last page he’d written. His heart aches in his chest, never having been quite whole again, not with what happened, as he closes his eyes and remembers her.

Dark, shining brown tresses. Laughing brown eyes. A mischievous curl of her lips. The dimples in her cheeks. A laugh that could power the sun. A bright, sparkly-eyed smile.

Enjolras sucks in a shaky breath, a tear falling from his eyelashes at the memory of Éponine. By God, he had loved her so much.

He still does.

His eyes trail over the final words, his breath catching in his throat.

_One not so very special day, I went to my typewriter, I sat down, and I wrote our story. It is a story about a time, it is a story about a place, it is a story about the people. But above all, it is a story about love._

_A love that will live on forever._

_The end._

**Author's Note:**

> [hi i hope you enjoyed this let me know what you think and come yell at me on tumblr about this fic and this ship because i've sold my soul to them](https://bisexual-eponine.tumblr.com/)


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